Lonerider

Tales

Shotgun BettyThe Beginning

Story by Sumit Vohra. Art by Jeff Winstead.

Dusk, and the wind was already singing a funeral song. Outside the saloon an empty coffin waited for somebody. It would not be Betty.
A coffin lid being nailed shut, THOK THOK THOK
The undertaker hammering at a coffin in the street
The wind takes the undertaker's hat
The undertaker chases his hat down the main street at dusk
The hat bounces down the empty street
The hat rolls toward the far end of town
A boot comes down on the hat, CRUNCH
The undertaker, out of breath, complains about his ruined hat
The undertaker sees who is wearing the boot
A rider in silhouette beside her horse; the undertaker mumbles "ma'am"
A crow wheels over the street as Betty walks toward the saloon
Shotgun Betty suggests he nail the hat to his head next time
The undertaker: "Hmph."
Betty pushes through the saloon doors, shotgun on her shoulder
Tonight she was too tired, too sure and too done forgiving anyone who stood in her way. Her eyes held his, and she already knew he would never clear his holster. He would go down the same way his partner had, because some fights you give a wide berth, and he had forgotten that.
Nobody else in the bar moved. The air had gone thick with powder and nobody wanted to be the one who breathed it in. Betty let herself remember Jack. Deadeye Jack, the only man she ever knew who never missed. Just for a second, and the second was enough.
She shot him in the leg.
His howl filled the room. She gave the place one last look and walked out on the last few years of her life.
At the edge of her land she swung down from her horse and slapped his rump to send him off. She opened the door she had never bothered to lock, knelt by the bed, and slid out a metal box. She checked what was inside, packed it in her rucksack with what she would need for the road, and took a few sticks of dynamite from the shelf.
Outside she ran a long fuse, struck a match, and walked.
The night lit up behind her. She did not look back. There was nothing left in that town but the horse, watching her go, and she had already said goodbye to him. Her shotgun rode on her shoulder. The next train out had a ticket with her name on it.

Some fights yougive a wide berth.

Meet Shotgun Betty. See the beer

Moretales