___There became a distinct, visceral feeling behind the name — Sonny. The sheriff could not find such a name in any other town; it was a common, dull description. Now it fell into the lexicon of notoriety — a man who faced him in marred scars of crimson, flecked in patches of light to throw the relief of his twisted smile onto the barred cells of the sheriff’s office.
___It didn’t have to be this way.
___An unbridled lawful hand strangled the West in a time of welcomed amnesty, and cruel lawlessness sought the unsteady heart. Appala was a town under the axis of two different cities — a pinprick between a stretch of desert; a town to rest in before the long journey East. Few stayed to make a habitat; some made trouble and left. None stayed long.
___When Sonny’s gang came, they stayed.
___Sonny was a sorry sight when the sheriff first laid eyes on him — a gash above his upper lip, wired hair pulled into a ponytail, dressed in brown leather with coyote tails tied to his belt. The people of Appala gave little notice to newcomers — they were use to the uncommon face, treating them the same as any normal, civil human being. Sonny’s presence pressed upon the town with small infractions — chickens disappeared, women harassed, bar fights intensified. The town demanded its deliverance.
___The sheriff could only see dried bushel of greens, burgundies, and yellows. He tipped his hat back to view Sonny and his gang use coyotes as target practice at dusk in the wide, open fields of Saguaro cacti. He watched as the smoke rose from Sonny’s cigarette, skinning the dead carcass under a sky of blackened clouds. Sonny’s black eyes bore into the sheriff’s at a glance, pocketing the knife in its holder. The sheriff covered his hat over his eyes as Sonny loaded up the skins on saddled horses, still wondering, pondering.
___The darkened saloon was cramped in oversized tables and chairs, occupied only by the gang and the sheriff. The room filled with smoke and dry ale; the gaseous fumes suffocated the room, creating moisture that bled through streaked red walls. The sheriff’s eyes roved between each guest, resting onto Sonny’s unabashed smile. The sheriff folded his hand and pulled out his gun with one warning, Leave this town. Sonny’s gang shifted, glancing at Sonny with pale faces; hands resting above their right thigh. Sonny continued to smile under the lip of his hat.
___Sonny paused; making a deal — what was the point of fighting? Asked what could be helped; how the honorable sheriff could be compensated. The sheriff’s face fell into a long pull, slowly replacing his gun inside its holder. Sonny folded his cards; added more chips.
___“All in.”
___Appala was a town with indistinct markings of poverty — little could distinguish a small town by the riches of the city. The people were content in their needs and wants. Finally, they noticed that little was being done to assuage Sonny. They turned against the sheriff when they saw only a silent, unobtrusive hand against the gang. Even times where the sheriff would make an appearance to hound others was waved idly aside. It seemed the sheriff could do nothing to correct the problem — a weakness perceived on him, but he found himself better weakened than crucified.
___The people revolted — civilly — they wanted no fighting, no bullying, no stealing or harassment. Simple people lived here, peaceful people. They wanted to kill off the infection before it seeped its way through, and ran afoul in Appala. The bandits were embittered, weaving through the village like a sin, casting down the righteous with insensate stomachs. The town soon defected from their usual pretenses with the death of the pastor’s wife. The sheriff was inconsolable. He watched the deadened sun fall down over her marked grave near a small gated cemetery, buried next to riff raff. Next to nothing. Turning around he heard the call of a drunken yell, laughing, the whipping of strong horses. The sheriff gripped the handle of his gun.
~*~
___Coyote loosed itself in the town, ravaging for scraps; scaly, scrawny. The weak knell of the church bell tipped its nose up at the bordered up building. The coyote skipped past it to loom its shadow over broken and skewed crosses of the cemetery. It passed the enclosure of the gate to follow the scent of fresh meat near a side of apposing buildings. It hurried in stride as it made its way up to a building just ahead, with a broken down sign riddled with bullet holes.
___Click
___The coyote stopped with raised paw, peering yellow eyes down a blackened hole of an alley. The coyote settled its paw down, digging it at an angle; its stance broadened, ready to strike, or run. Its hackles were drawn. Head bowed.
___Dirt flew near its paw and it fled, flew up the alley, dodging the unsteady bullets — feeling a ricochet of a bullet clip its paw. The coyote rolled, kicking up a dust, obscuring the alleyway, the beast. The coyote raised its body and got back up, dragging its wounded leg behind him.
___“Sorry sight.”
___The coyote ran faster, not looking back, hearing a click behind him. Sonny raised his gun, sniffing, steadying his gun as his head pounded. It was a mistake to hunt and drink at the same time; no matter. He shot again, missed. The coyote disappeared, running behind the corner of a shaded deli.
___Sonny lowered his gun, throwing it ten yards away; disgusted. He spit, wiped his chin, leaning on one leg before stumbling over himself. His gang was away in the saloon when Sonny spotted the mammal. He never passed up good meat. Still, his brain lulled inside its skull. He tripped out into the night and tipped his hat back, but skinning mammals wasn’t something he could do now. Stumbling into a sitting position, he searched for his gun with bleary eyes. He patted his hands around in the dirt, sniffed at the air, smelling the fresh, live cigarette smoke lingering behind him, looming at a distance, with a soft, unsettling presence of an animal.
___Thunk
___Sonny blinked out the blackness stirring in his brain, taking in the lines of the broken, aged ceiling. His head racked in an heaviness when he lifted slowly, slowly off the ground, feeling the hot singeing embers of the fire flit across his hand. He moved it quickly to his chest, looking all around at the burning fire raging around him — flickering across the ceiling, on the walls, against the bars of the sheriff’s office. One eye peered ahead at a shadowy figure; Sonny’s eye sight cleared to a vision of the sheriff cleaning his gun on his table.
___Sonny laughed, his head arching back. He stopped laughing to prop himself up on his elbows, feeling a tug on his arm — a tug near the bars of the cells. Sonny sat up to pull and yank at his chain, knowing it was useless. He looked all around him until his eyes settled on the dark, black eyes of the sheriff.
___“Why you got me chained up, huh? Like a rat. You like me, sheriff? Just like me?”
___The sheriff didn’t answer, pausing. The smoke dispersed around them with the sheriff rising out of his seat, his desk disintegrating. A shadow cut across his face as he raised his gun tip to temple, clicking back his gun.
___“We’re goin’ die in here — die in here for the sins of us both.”
--
Made for a contest, for fun. I don't really care for it too much, but I had to make it cuz I said I would. XD Ah well. I would change many things but it's fine ... for now. I like the coyote part, at least. heh.
