Retribution in
the Old West
For the past
week, Isaac found himself battling a recurring nightmare. He envisioned a trail
that appeared to be endless, and a dim light which granted but a small gap of visibility
within the confined space. Each time he found himself on his horse standing
before the gorge, its features remained intact, despite the dream
having altered in detail each night. He recalled its rich chestnut coat livened
by the sun that shone upon it, its groomed black mane and forelocks which sat
on its blaze marked face, and the reigns which he held tightly before he spurred
his horse into a sprint, through the valley. Over and over in the dream as he
rode, Isaac looked above to the edges of the rock structures that stood on both
sides, but by the sixth dream, specific aspects of the scene were blurred and
unfamiliar. The laugh of Amos cut in and echoed, causing him to violently toss
and turn in his bed. After his body had settled, the gorge had reached its end,
and evened out onto dusty plains. Isaac emerged as he had before, aware of his
surroundings and taking careful steps to where he pulled his horse to a
standstill before a steep, but manageable drop. He observed on the landing
below, what came to be seen as a camp, with men carrying crates from an
overturned carriage, just beyond the tents. Isaac knew these men but in his
dream they appeared as ordinary thieves, all until the bearded man surfaced
from within one of the tents. It was Amos. Isaac already knew the flaw in his
next move when he retrieved his Winchester from the holster on his back and
aimed, where upon firing, he foolishly gave up his position. Amos’ instincts
switched to that of a keen animal, he growled as he grabbed his revolver and
held it up, directly at Isaac. By now, Amos’ form had changed as Isaac imagined
him, as if like a shape-shifter, but his face and the intensity of his eyes
remained.
