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Welcome To The Bullpen
The Seven Riders
By Mathew Pizzolato
Tom Bronson closed one eye and sighted down the barrel. This posse just wouldn't let up. They had been on his trail for a week.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He held it and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle bucked in his hands, surprising him. Crimson blossomed on the chest of the man he aimed at and the man rolled backward off his horse.
"That should hold them for a while," he said to no one in particular. He climbed into the saddle and slapped the spurs to his horse.
If he hadn't killed that teller in that town back there, the posse might not be so persistent. But that was the way it had happened and there wasn't much he could do to change it.
He glanced over his shoulder. He saw a cloud of dust. They were still coming. What did he have to do to get rid of them?
His horse needed rest in the worst kind of way. He wasn't too concerned about riding it to death but that would leave him stranded. He had to find a place to stop or he was going to be walking. The idea didn't appeal to him.
He needed water too. He had emptied his canteen the day before. The next water hole he came across he would stop at. He slowed the pace a little.
He glanced at the sun to see how much daylight he had left. He shielded his eyes. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes. He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. His lips were cracked and dry.
He hadn't planned on robbing that bank but it had been ripe for the picking. He had a little over six thousand dollars in his saddlebags. That had been too much to pass up.
If only that still-wet-behind-the-ears bank teller hadn't reached for the gun. Tom had no compunctions about killing. He had killed men before but not unless he had too. Doing so unnecessarily brought unwanted attention.
Tom could have carved eight notches in his gun, but he was no tinhorn. The sun dropped toward the horizon, creating even more of a glare. He rode directly into it.
Just after dark, he found the water hole. A huge cottonwood towered overhead. He jumped from the saddle and waded into the water. He drank only a few sips and stopped himself.
Drinking too much too soon would make him sick. He let his horse have a few swallows and then staked him out just out of reach of the water.
He made camp and cooked the last of his beans and bacon. The posse was a few hours behind him and had probably made camp somewhere. He doubted they would follow him after dark.
There wasn't much of a moon and there would be too much of a chance of loosing his trail. Unless they knew where he was headed.
Did they have someone with them who knew this country? He had tried every trick he knew, but hadn't been able to shake them.
After an hour, he led his horse to water and let him drink his fill. He refilled his canteen and unsaddled his horse. By then, his supper was ready. He ate and washed it down with cold, fresh water.
He decided he should keep watch. That posse just might try to slip up on him. He didn't want to be caught napping. He leaned back against the cottonwood, his rifle in his hands.
He yawned. He was so very tired. If only he could close his eyes for just a moment. His eyelids drooped and he forced them open.
He took a swig from his canteen. The last few days on the run were starting to wear on him. He wasn't as young as he had once been. His head fell forward and his eyes closed. He slept.
The clicking of a hammer cocking woke him. Tom's eyes flared open. His rifle lay at his feet. He must have dropped it when he had dozed off.
The posse was spread out before him in a half moon. They had him. There were seven of them.
"Well, what have we got here?" said a man with a badge on his chest.
Tom looked slowly at each of the men. The one on the end was with a black hat on his head was an Indian. He must be the tracker.
Tom's heart hammered in his chest. How would he get out of this one? He looked for any avenue of escape. There was none.
"My name is Ralph Johnson," said the man with the badge. "That was my boy you killed in the bank."
The man next to him spoke up. He wore a full beard that needed to be trimmed. "That was my brother you ambushed." He leveled his pistol at Tom.
Ralph put a hand on his arm. "Now hold on just a minute, Harry. We are going to do this proper." He shook out a coil of rope.
Tom panicked. He reached for the rifle at his feet. He jerked his hand back suddenly.
Blood poured from the bullet hole in his hand. The echo of the shot slammed away into the night.
Smoke trailed from the barrel of the gun in Harry's hand. He grinned maliciously. "Stand up, you," Harry said.
The other grim-faced men trained their guns on him.
Tom obeyed. This looked like the end of the line.
Ralph tied a hangman's knot in the end of the rope and slung it over the lowest limb on the cottonwood. He got down from the saddle and tied off the other end to the base of the tree.
He took a pigging string and tied Tom's hands behind his back. Harry led up Tom's horse and they got Tom onto its back.
"I'm going to enjoy this," Harry said. He looped the rope over Tom's head and tightened it behind his left ear.
Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was time to meet his maker.
"Got any last words?" Ralph asked him.
Tom tried to chuckle but the rope around his neck was too tight. It didn't look like he was going to be getting out of this one.
Each man looked at him, awaiting his response.
"I'll see you in hell," Tom said.
"Mind if I have the honors?" Harry asked. He thumbed back the hammer on his Colt and held it above his head.
Tom grinned. If he was going to go out, he was going his way. No need to give them the satisfaction.
He slapped his spurs to the horse and it darted forward.
The rope tightened and dragged him off the horse. Tom dangled in the air. Something hissed. He realized it was the air leaving his body. He swung slowly back and forth. The rope creaked.
The edge of his vision turned black and expanded until all he saw was blackness.
The seven men sat in silence. None of them spoke. Then one by one, they turned their horses and rode back to whence they came.
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REVIEW 1
Good story idea but the writing could use some work. I've never seen so many sentences start with the word "He." It makes the story read like a laundry list. Use more imagination with your sentence structure.
REVIEW 2
This is a good story, and I enjoyed it. It is probably inspired by Ambrose Bierce's famous "Owl Creek Bridge" work, set during the Civil War. I think you should have played around more with the time structure, something like the dream sequence in Owl Creek. It's possible to draw inspiration from but not necessarily copy or mimic Bierce's plot, and it would have provided added interest for your reader. I know Bierce is a literary great, so it's not a fair comparison. But Bierce's story, using an odd time sequence, had a truly surprise ending, compared to "The Seven Riders," which was kind of a predictable ending.
REVIEW 3
I like the story, and there is a morality lesson here. The guy is a bad person from the get-go, and we get to be inside his head and see things from his view. In the end, he gets what he deserved, so basically the story, despite the sad ending, paid the reader off.
Review 4
There is nothing wrong with the story, but the presentation needs work. I hope I have steered you in the right direction. Keep writing because practice makes perfect.
Good luck,
L. Roger Quilter.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He held it and squeezed the trigger.
Suggest combining into one sentence.
He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly, and squeezed the trigger.
He glanced over his shoulder. He saw a cloud of dust
Suggest combining into one sentence.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw a cloud of dust.
His horse needed rest in the worst kind of way. He wasn't too concerned about riding it to death but that would leave him stranded. He had to find a place to stop or he was going to be walking. The idea didn't appeal to him.
He needed water too. He had emptied his canteen the day before. The next water hole he came across he would stop at. He slowed the pace a little.
He glanced at the sun to see how much daylight he had left. He shielded his eyes. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes. He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. His lips were cracked and dry.
‘He’ starts four sentences in a row, a total of seven and two start with ‘His’, bad writing, sorry! I suggest a rewrite like this -
The horse was tired and needed rest in the worst kind of way. If he rode it to death that would leave him stranded, so he searched for a place to stop or he was going to be walking. That idea didn't appeal to him.
Water was in short supply; his canteen emptied the day before. Slowing the pace a little he hoped to stop at the next water hole. Shielding his eyes he squinted up at the sun, checking how much daylight was left. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes. Swiping the back of his hand across his forehead to clear it, finding his lips were cracked and dry.
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