This post is part of the series Hateful Eight
Other posts in this series:
A new team has emerged…eight strangers, brought together under a single purpose – a purpose known only to them. Their stories are as varied as their methods. Those that don’t know them won’t like them, and those that do sometimes won’t know how to take them. They aren’t wrong, just different, but their pride won’t let them do things to make you think they are right. These are their tales…some of them…
To the town of Mousillon rode a stranger. He didn’t say a word, not that he had much to say in the first place. Nobody dared not ask his business, no one dared to approach him. The pistol on his hip communicated all the words that needed to be said. It was early in the morning, the fog had not yet cleared, and the stranger rode down the main street. He came from the south.
“He’s an outlaw on the run,” came a whisper from an onlooker.
“From the look of that big iron on his hip, he’s here for business,” replied another without making eye contact with the stranger.
In the town, there lived an outlaw. Many had come to try and claim the reward for his life, and as many had lost their own in the attempt. The outlaw was a vicious killer, but young, his skill with a pistol far exceeding the age of his boots. Those that got close enough to him, and lived, noted that his pistol had more than twenty notches on the handle.
Now the stranger started asking around, he had nothing to hide. He wouldn’t be here very long, and he planed to take the outlaw back alive or maybe dead – it didn’t matter.
It didn’t take very long for the stranger’s story to reach the outlaw.
“Many have tried before, and as many are dead,” thought the outlaw. Twenty men had tried to take him out, and twenty men had made that same mistake, and twenty one would be this stranger…this stranger with the big iron on his hip.
Now the morning passed quickly, and it was half past eleven when they strode into the street. People peered out their windows, standing behind cracked doors and ducked behind corners. Everybody held their breath, they knew what would happen next.
This handsome stranger was about to meet his death.
There was twenty paces between them, the outlaw and the stranger. They stared, waiting for the other to make his play. The swiftness of the stranger is still talked about. The outlaw had not even cleared leather when a bullet pieced his temple. The stranger’s aim was deadly with the big iron on his hip.
It was over as fast as it started, and the crowd started to gather around the outlaw who lay dead on the ground.
He might have went on living, had he not made one fatal slip.
He tried to match the stranger…the stranger with the big iron on his hip.
The Hateful Eight are a Brettonian team inspired by classic western songs. Each player embodies the song they are named after, their backstory is the same as their namesake song.
Continue reading this series:
The Hateful Eight: El Paso