Lonerider

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Hoppy Ki YayThe Ballad of John Kincaid

Story by Sumit Vohra.

That winter bit hard. Even the horses walked like they resented it. None of it slowed John Kincaid's hands. He drew like water runs downhill, and his eyes looked tired every time he did it. John didn't care for killing. He just never ran from it when a man had earned it.
A frozen frontier street under deep snow, horses steaming at the rail
John Kincaid walks down the snowy street, pinstripe vest, two holstered revolvers
Picket had earned it.
Picket stands on a boardwalk in a long black coat, hands behind his back, smiling coldly
Six foot three, pressed and polished, with cruelty worn as easy as his coat. Picket loved a showdown. Maybe because he had never lost one. Maybe because he liked to watch a man realize he was about to die. The town was his, and no drifter was going to tell him otherwise.
The town had learned to keep its eyes on the ground. Years under Picket will do that. But this morning something moved behind those lowered eyes. Nobody said a word. Nobody had to.
Townsfolk keep their heads down as Kincaid passes, while an old woman looks up at him
At high noon the two men faced each other in the street, quiet and comfortable, as if they had done this before. They had, just never with each other. One fought because he had to. The other fought because he could.
Kincaid and Picket face each other down the length of the snowy street at noon
Two shots. The smoke couldn't keep up.
Both men fire at once, smoke curling from their revolvers
Picket's bullet found John's arm. John's found Picket.
Kincaid pulls at the torn sleeve where Picket's bullet grazed his arm
John looked down at the blood on his sleeve, shrugged, turned and walked away at the same unhurried pace he had walked in. Behind him Picket lay in the dirt, his face still catching up with his surprise.
Kincaid walks away through the snow as the town watches, Picket fallen far behind him
The town didn't know what to do with itself. It would figure that out. But it would never forget the name John Kincaid.

John didn't care for killing. He justnever ran from it when a man had earned it.

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