Brush Whack

Dunn stumbled from behind the solitary stone in the scrubland when he heard the coach coming, and fell across the trail. Hollering, the driver reined the horses. They reared snorted and stomped their hooves inches from Dunn’s face.

“Hold on,” the guard said, dropping down from the stagecoach and cocking the hammer on his Winchester. He used the shotgun’s barrel to prod Dunn, and got no response.

“Shit,” he said. “Help me drag the bastard off the trail.”

They tossed Dunn in the brush and started to climb the coach.

Dunn sprung up like a rattlesnake, fanned his pistol empty.

Prompt courtsy of Sue Vincen’t #Writephoto.

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