The bandito’s corpse lay on its back, its eyes half open and still fully plastered over by the sheen of surprise. He still hadn’t decided what he’d do with the bandito’s horse. There’d be water in the bandito’s pack, he thought, untying the burro and patting its warm chest. He lowered himself down the side of the outcropping from which he’d shot, and circled to where he’d hidden his tired, thirsty burro. Save for the timepiece on his wrist he was naked, and the relentless sun had burned his skin brown. He grinned and looked forward to wearing clothes again. It hit the ground no less dead than the bandito.įenimore rose from his crouch, watched-no dust rose on the horizon-and listened. It hit straight into the bandito’s forehead like an Ash Wednesday cross.įenimore slung his rifle over his shoulder, took one last drag of his cigar and tossed it aside. He just chomped down on his cigar, moved the muzzle slightly to the left, squinted-and made sure the second bullet didn’t miss. He merely cocked his head, and the sun’s rays slid from the muzzle to a thick bead of sweat gathering on Fenimore’s brow. The first bullet drilled a hole clean through the bandito’s sombrero, through which the rays of the hot noonday sun fell like whips on the glistening muzzle of Fenimore’s rifle, peeking out from between two dusty rocks a good hundred paces away. I also like computers, text editors and mechanical keyboards.įor more info and links to my writing, please visit my website: normancrane.ca Chapter 1. I peer under mossy rocks, knock on hollow trees and believe in hidden passageways-not because I have proof of their existence, but because imagining them is itself the reward. I enjoy fiction that makes me curious because curiosity makes me creative. Philip Dick, Haruki Murakami and Graham Greene are some of my favourite authors. When I’m not writing, I’m probably reading or trying to cook. I’m also a historian, a wise guy and a cinephile.
Copyright 2016 Norman Crane About the Author, i.e.
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