Betrayed

When I was younger I wern’t afraid of so much. Dag, I reckon I wern’t afraid a right-near-nothin.

I were always perty good with a gun of any kind, I was eagle-eyed and had the hands of God, my Pa always tolt me. But I ‘spect if he’d known that I’d growd up to be a murderer he wouldn’t of been so proud.

I was sixteen first time I shot a feller.

I’d been smartin' off in front of all the men during a cattle drive, where I’d gotten my first good payin’ job. I was gawing on about how I could outshoot anyone … anyone mind you, and ole Tom Hucker got all fired up and called me a wet-pants-cry-baby, and I shot him before he could say much else.

Then I ran before they could have me at the Sheriff next day and hung. Weren’t much point in getting another job, after that. So I learnt to hone my skills. And in just a few years I was infamous.

I was a lucky feller, so I thought.

But now I am an old man, with hands that shake like a leaf, and can’t holt a gun steady for half a second. I ‘spect that I don’t have long b’fore someone catches me. Funny, I always reckoned it’d be another gun-slinger that’d get me kilt, or see me at the end of a hangman’s noose.

I never figured the fellers to betray me would be my own hands.

~August 2003