The Last Outlaw

Ivory bones, hung like charms, rattled against the old tree.
The tree was twisted, turned in on itself.

Inside, a bloodied heart beat. 

                              Sluggish.

                                             Weak.

Outlaws were outdone. Gunslingers, worn thin like stretched leather.

The tree’s roots slithered underground, searching for marrow and fat, how else would the West thrive?

He arrived on horseback, shrouded in midnight, though he was no man. His scythe reflected the sunset’s fire. His tattered cloak billowed in the dust. He smiled, and it was terrible.

The West called; Death answered. She craved blood.

He would give it to her—

One drop at a time.