Title: Synonymous with Death

Author: zephiey

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable character. This story is not for monetary gain.

Summary: Death bears a familiar name.

Synonymous With Death

They say he’s a gunslinger.

An outlaw.

They say his name is synonymous with death.

That his name is Death.

They say he’s killed twenty men, some say thirty and some say that he’s been killing for more than twenty years.

His eyes are hard, his face stoic not betraying any emotion. His voice is soft, quiet.

I watched when he met all three in the middle of the street. He gave them a chance to surrender but they laughed at his offer. I think that laughter was the last sound they ever made. They died too quickly for me to hear any other words.

The gunfight was over before it had begun. His black gloved hand pulled his gun from his holster as quick as lightening in response to the other men’s movement. The sharp crack of six shots was heard. Three pinging off wood, metal and dirt and three others entering the bodies of the men with an audible plop.

I had never seen men die before and I am not sure I want to see it again. Blood, skin and body fluids littered the dirt of the street. I never knew dying was so messy. The stories never mention the sight or the smell.

I watch him walk over to the three dead men, bend down next to them and retrieve a piece of gingham from the inside pocket of the second dead man. He barely glances at the youngest of the three and stares intently at the oldest. His hand moves back to his holstered gun and for a split-second I am sure he is going to draw and shoot the dead man again. But his hand drops and I see him take a deep breath before he reaches down to remove a silver fob from the old dead man’s watch chain.

The sun is now in my eyes and I cannot see his face clearly but I think I hear him whisper ‘it’s done’ before he walks away.

I move from my hiding place hoping to catch one more glimpse of the man’s face before he leaves. As I move into plain sight the stranger mounts his horse, wheeling it around. His eyes and mine meet and in that brief moment I suddenly know more about this man than anyone ever will.

He is not an outlaw.

Or a gunslinger.

But he is Death.

A dark haired Death known as Nick Barkley.

The End