A Tired Old Cliche (Man with No Name Fiction)

He rode into the town, one of many along the dusty old trail.

His horse neighed as it smelled fresh water. He kept on riding till he spotted the familiar noise and odor of the saloon.
As he went in, the room fell quiet, all eyes on him. Calculating, watching, as his eyes took to the dim-lit room. Going to the barkeep he could feel the weight of their eyes on him, on his worn clothes, on his holsters and the iron he was packing.
He ordered ale and kept feeling them, as their eyes went back to what they were doing prior.

**

He bartered with the man keeping the livery stable. He did not comment on the blood on the floor, hid by fresh hay but its scent still hanging heavy in the air. It never did to comment on such.

Leaving the stable, he was confronted by two men, one of them he'd seen in the saloon, had seen his money. The other man was unknown to him, but he was dressed sharply. Sharply enough for a town such as this at least.
He spat on the ground, and looking at them from under the rim of his hat, he waited, knowing they'll state their business. Or they'd go away. Either was fine with him. He spat again.
"Hold it right there!" the sharply dressed man said.
"You stole from me, and I want my money back, or else you'd find yourself dead, par'dner", his drawl indicated he used the last word as an insult, or at least meant to.
As he watched this silently, people started pouring out of the saloon, and out of his office the sheriff has come out.
"What's this about Earl?"
The sharp man, Earl, looked quickly at the sheriff and back at him, "He was in my store and stole gear and food sheriff!"
The sheriff gave Earl and his friend a calculating look, and looked back at him, "Is that so?"
He looked from under his hat with cool blue eyes, and squinted at the sun, "Can't say it is."

**

A tumble-weed had blown across his path like a tired old cliche.
He looked at the wounded man kneeling in front of him, his gun not empty but not quite full in his hand, his other gun quite empty and holstered again.
"Get him, get him and kill him" the man told his dog.
He glanced at the dog, his eyes as cool as the lead he had put into the dog's owner.
The dog at least knew better, and didn't get any closer. He turned away.

**

He knew this was only the beginning. His job in this town, were he to take the one of cleaning it, was just beginning.
But he was too tired, there was always another town. The job never ended, and all he got for his trouble were more holes in his body, more holes in his soul.

He rode out of the town onto the trail, just one town like so many others.

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art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics

_{^{The image in this post is taken from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.}}

© Guy Shalev 2007.