​The wagon took them through the hillside. 

Three men,  headed for the noose. Outlaws.  

They reached the gates of the dusty little pueblo a little after noon. The sun was high in the sky.  A few Mexicans smoked cigarettes bought from the American marshalls when they passed through a few weeks back.  They eyeballed the wagon as it passed by and as they met the prisoners gaze a few of them spat.  Three weeks before men like these had embraced them, called them hero’s and now as the wagon rolled by the word ‘Cerdo’  fell from their lips. Memory like politics was fragile here, thought the outlaws.  One of the men leapt up.  He drew his gun, pointed it and pulled the trigger. The horse buckled, and the wagon stopped.  The rider jumped down and drew his gun,  pointing it at the Mexican.  ‘I’m taking these men to the noose Coño’  he said flatly.  Not today amigo.  He shot the prison guard directly in the head.  His blood spattered into the wagon.  Their ears still ringing as they heard it unlock. 

Kevin Brown © 04.08.2016

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