Drink with an Outlaw

He smells of blood and campfire, blue eyes shining water in the desert of his time worn frame.  A gun hangs from his hip, mother of pearl calling out to the eye of the casual observer, but if you look more closely, you'll see that it's the elk bone knife handle that bears scars to match his.  They've come a long way together, and now they are here.  Does it make you nervous, eight empty stools in this saloon and he takes the one next to you?  He is a death dealer, plain and true.  There is no mistaking his clothes for a costume, no doubting that those are the eyes of someone who's killed a man.  But he is just here for a wash of whiskey, a taste of tit.  The River Road Inn gave up it's river to the sun long before either of you had traded your toys for guns and your dreams for death, but it remains an oasis, a church of the outlaw, where guns are usually holstered, 'cept when they ain't.  So drink up.  Kick that bourbon back.  Relax.  But mind your tongue.  They say killing a man just gets easier with time.

Reviews

[Chad Wesley Allbrett]

Juicy and phat man. Splendid observations and use of descriptive language.
Somehow it made me hunger for more though; perhaps this could find its way into
a short story? Where guns are usually holstered, 'cept when they anint" " Brilliant line, that.
I think it makes for a better title.