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Still, it's a risk that must be met; and the greater offense is to allow the guilty go unpunished. But for the wicked, revelations can be far more terrifying, when dark secrets are exposed and sinners are punished for their trespasses. Wikipedia has an article about: Revenge. Look up revenge in Wiktionary , the free dictionary.

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Category : Themes. Namespaces Page Discussion. Views Read Edit View history. In other projects Wikimedia Commons Wikipedia. But I got some coin and a vengeance strong enough to cut any throat that tries to cross me right now. The bartender tips a bit more my way and I take a slug. Tastes like fire. Trousers and boots. One of my flannels. A flat-brimmed Stetson. Helps I got my hair stuffed up under the hat too. When I ran into the house to try to save a few precious items, my hair caught fire.

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Now, with its singed ends hidden from view, I reckon I look like any other greasy, tired, drink-seeking gent on Whiskey Row. And a scrawny one at that, without so much as a whisker on my chin. I turned eighteen two days ago. I itch at my ribs through the flannel and watch the son of a bitch in the cloudy mirror mounted behind the bar. I give him another hour or two.

Blood Oath of Vengeance

Three tops. He fell from his horse hard when I shot him. The bastard was so hurt, tracking him those five miles were easy. Once in town, he rode up Whiskey Row. I found his horse outside the Quartz Rock Saloon—blood smeared on the saddle horn, another speckle or two showing his move inside. He crumpled like a sack of grains when I cut him down.

It were a beauty of a pistol—polished white grip, engraved barrel, a finish so pretty, it shined.

The weapon in my holster matches. I was sweating like a hog by the time it were done, knowing right well that those men were slipping free as I shoveled earth. But Pa deserved a proper burial. More than any man, he deserved things to be done right in his memory. He landed slumped on his side when I rolled him into the grave, limbs bent at all the wrong angles, but at least he was facing Ma.

After throwing earth back over him, I fashioned a wooden cross for the grave. The first two distracted from the pain, but I need my mind sharp. The wrap I got over my chest to keep my shirt from looking suspiciously full is itching like hellfire. Pa and I rode into Prescott every week for supplies. Not with the deed my fingers are itching to do. I check the mirror. He grumbles a response.

She frowns but then slings an arm behind his neck anyways and tries to squeeze onto his lap. She reaches for him again. Drinks clatter and crash. Cards fly up like snowflakes. My mark draws his gun first. The prospectors freeze solid.


The uniforms next to me tense. Keeping the men in his sights, the murderous son of a bitch hobbles toward the door. My mark slips onto the street.

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Soon as the doors swing closed behind him, time unsticks. The whore stands. The prospectors right their table. I toss some coins onto the bar and follow the bastard. I shove out the saloon without a word back.

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Stirrups and rigging rings wink at me from the saddled horses lining Whiskey Row. Like they know. I trail the son of a bitch round the corner, where he stumbles for an outhouse and ducks inside. Not even a breeze. I walk cautious, step nearer. Till I swear I can smell the sweat and blood coming off the wretch on the other side.

My revolver hums on my hip. I draw the pistol with my right hand, grip the door with my left. He freezes, showing me his palms. I grab it and toss it onto the dirt behind me. My father died alone.

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This man could be the very same who slipped the rope over his head, heaved him high, and left him swinging. You just killed him and rode on, and for what? Oh, that shines! It were a hunt, with Pa being the target.