It’s high noon and gusty in the lonely, desolate town. Dust devils swirl and blow open the doors of abandoned saloons. Tumbleweeds drift listlessly in all directions. In the distance, the sound of light hoofsteps advance. The dry and brittle ground seems only good for sandstorms to ferment. Suddenly, a saloon door creaks open and two drunken cowboys stumble out muttering curses. The short, stout one, cloaked in worn leather duster, tries to support himself on a nearby post. The other, tall and thin with chiseled facial features, wears a smirk reminiscent of Billy the Kid. Suddenly, they both pause in deepened thought, combing through the motley ranks of their minds’ armies. Slowed by drunken confusion, neither moves until their eyes meet. Something inside propels them to fight, and they curse out each other before stumbling to the center of the otherwise deserted town. Back-to-back they stand, leaning on each other for support as they prepared to duel. The tall, thin cowboy smooths out his wrinkled coat and pushes it back behind his hips. The short, stout cowboy responds with a laugh and smooths his mussed hair to the right.
They begin their promenade, wobbling and swaying from left to right as they desperately try to reach that fifth step. The first step is taken, and sweat drips from the wrinkled forehead of the tall, thin cowboy to the crackled ground. The short, fat cowboy senses his opponent’s fear and a thin line of content smears across his face. The second step is taken and the tall, thin cowboy lengthens his strides while the short, fat man struggles to walk straight. As the third step passes, both cowboys start a long, slow shiver. The fourth step approaches and both cowboys strengthen their resolve. Then, with the fifth step near, both cowboys plant their feet and spin their hips. They quickly reach to the holsters by their sides and draw their Colt .45s. The tall, thin man stares into the other cowboy’s glassy eyes and a wave of humanity flashes over him. With eyes transfixed on his opponent, he drops his revolver to the barren ground. The short, fat one fires in a rush of drunken anger. The bullet whistles through the air wobbling slightly.
Gravity does its deeds. The bullet bites through flesh with ruthless coercion. Pigmented liquid dribbles down the homemade flannel, staining the holsters. Bang! More dribbles. The tall, thin man falls to his knees in anguish. He grabs his pistol and aims at the short, fat man. With a frail and final breath, he mutters a prayer and pulls the trigger. The tall, thin cowboy closes his eyes and with a proper smile, falls lifelessly to the brittle ground. Liquid hydrates the ground from where his head lays and a tumbleweed rolls past. The short, fat cowboy pulls his bandana over his mouth, fixes his weathered Stetson, and drunkenly staggers out of the dusty limits of the town to live another day. Amidst the haunting, stagnant smell of death, the tall, thin cowboy is left to tend to the forgotten ghost town which would soon carry his name: Reno the Cowboy.