Indian Giver

A Story by Lyfelucke

A story I wrote for entertainment.

"Them savages are--"

Slick stopped mid-sentence with a puzzled look. Blood began trickling down his face. He put his hand to his forehead and tried to make out the word "What?" before falling forward into the poker table.

Willy, across the table, fumbled out of his chair and ran to get the doctor. When he returned with Doc Carson, Slick was pronounced dead from a wound to the head. He later removed a bullet.

The saloon door flung open proceeded by the entrance of Slick Rolden, an undefeated gunslinger. Well known about to a great many people. He couldn't walk into a saloon and it not go silent.

Slick was in a particularly cocky mood and wanted to show someone how great he was. He walked up to the bar and ordered two shots. After drinking both, he ordered two more, and then two more after those.

Lit, but still quite confident he could win in any gun duel, he challenged the Indian Featherleaf.

Featherleaf, an Indian accustomed to the ways of the "white man", wore Indian attire as well as a 6-shooter on each side. Everyone in town referred to him as Red.

He accepted Slick's challenge and agreed to take the duel to the street.

The two stood yards from each other waiting for the clock to turn the hour. At the stroke of 3, they would both draw their guns. The person left standing would be the obvious winner of the duel.

Seconds before, both men readied themselves, each in own stance. As the sound of the clock chimed through the town, both men drew.

The crowd of the town fell silent and looked at the men.

Blood streamed down Featherleaf's face. Slick had shot him directly in the forehead just above his eyes. He stood for only a moment before falling to his knees and then to the ground, face down.

Slick couldn't help himself but to laugh. He trotted around proudly yelling, "No one can beat me. I'm the best!"

After satisfying his vanity, Slick walked back into the saloon leaving everyone else looking at the lifeless body of the Indian Featherleaf.

Soon, the specters became to deteriorate. None even nicked any of his effects in fear of a curse of revenge being cast on them.

Only but one person after a while would approach his body. An Indian woman who knew Featherleaf very well. No one knew her real name, but the Mexicans described her as "loca", and as so she was called. Loca, to the surprise of all watching, was very strong for woman not of a considerable size. She was able to lift Featherleaf over her shoulder and carry him back to her home.

She lived in a small shack near the end of town. She almost never left it, and for that, had a reputation of several rumors.

Inside her home, she laid the Indian Featherleaf flat on her table. She looked at him for a moment, examining his bullet wound.

"You know the rules" she said. "Once the spirit leaves the body, it's final. All I can offer is a chance for the wicked to receive their reward".

She placed a chair by the table facing Featherleaf's head. Placing both hands, one on top of the other, on his forehead, she began to chant. As she did, a light from beneath her hands showed through her fingers.

Finishing the chant, Loca and removed her hands from Featherleaf's forehead. Nothing of a bullet wound was to be found. His forehead was the same as when he walked out of the saloon for a slinger duel no more than a few hours before.

"The wicked have received their reward. Your spirit may go in peace" she said sitting back into the chair. She smiled when she heard the shouts of Willy Jensly as he ran through town. "Doc Carson! Doc Carson!"