camwyn | Oh, frell's bells. (Reply)

15minuteficlets had a word last week that I missed. I went to see if I could make it up with more Ira. Ira did not cooperate.

Scary Ninja Mountie cooperated.

Last week's word: chilling.

They called him 'Mouse'. He answered to it as readily as to any other name. They'd meant it as an insult; the little fellow wouldn't use a gun, wouldn't even carry one if it was up to him. What kind of a fool rode the Wyoming range without a gun?

Especially at his size. Someone like Big Pete, now- he was huge. They'd seen him wrestle a full-grown bull to the ground and pin it there without breaking a sweat. Man like that, he didn't need a gun. He just had to flex his muscles and his enemies would crawl on their bellies in his presence.

Mouse, though- Mouse didn't have an excuse. He was ridiculously small. Some of the men had boys still in school who stood taller. When he walked down the streets of a town, men stared and women giggled. If he sat down in a saloon, the bartender offered him milk. How could a fellow like that get along without a gun? He'd get killed for sure.

So they did some digging, and they nosed around until they found a Colt that'd belonged to someone long dead. It was wrapped up like a parcel and left in the minuscule cowpoke's bedroll for him to find. They clapped each other on the shoulders and congratulated themselves on pushing the timid little fellow into the real world. Then they forgot about it, because there was still work to do before nightfall.

When the blue shadows streaked themselves across the open spaces of Wyoming, they remembered their gift to their companion. Bill Barstow, the trail boss, grinned as the man slid from his saddle, alighting on the ground with the ease of a child. "Got somethin' for you, there," he commented; Mouse looked up at him. Barstow jerked his chin at the bedroll. "G'wan. Don't never say I didn't do nothin' for ya, boy."

Mouse shrugged, obediently undoing the straps. The bedroll fell open, revealing the gleaming revolver and its companion bullets.

They jabbed each other in the ribs and failed to suppress their snickers as the tiny man examined the weapon. They'd seen more enthusiasm from wedded wives confronting whores.

"Well, Mouse?" said Barstow. "It's considered polite to thank a fellow when he gives you a gift."

The man called Mouse looked up, his grey eyes glittering oddly in the falling light of the evening sun. "Thank you," he answered, "but I don't have much call for a thing like this."

"Boy, that's just crazy talk! Out here a man needs a gun at his side, or he ain't nothin'! You just don't know how to use one properly, I reckon."

Mouse looked at the trail boss a long while. Then, very slowly, he smiled. The expression was that of a man ten times more dangerous than even Big Pete; Barstow found it weirdly chilling. "Really?" he said mildly. "Cook still got those cans?"

Barstow blinked. "Huh?"

Turning to scan the surroundings, Mouse pointed towards a lone, scraggly looking tree. "Line 'em up," he suggested. "You'll see."

This isn't perfect. This isn't even all that good. But I've only had about fifteen minutes to work on it, and that leaves no time for editing or tweaking. That having been said, now go here to see what this ficlet feeds into. And, once again, thank you, Lester Dent.