that one western au i keep talking about writing that i actually decided to write about at 1 am
rate my prologue:
"If you value your own life lad, you best not cross the sheriff. A man so crooked, he could swallow nails and spit out corkscrews." - A local bartender, but you didn't hear it from him.
In the pitch dark of the evening hours, a leather boot crashed through a window pane-- glass shattered, wood splintered, and Jamie cried out the lord's name in vain. He leapt through the opening, wasting no moment to assess the property damage. It was not his house, and it was not his window, and, as he would later claim when questioned by people Jamie would rather not be questioned by, it was not him who had been seen jumping out from the sheriff's house through the window.
He ran. Jamie was good at running. He did it often, whether he liked it or not. But he had to, just like the other prey that scampered through the desert sand. It was how they survived. And though he was fast and good at running, he could not outrun a gun. Knowing this, Jamie stole yet another thing from the sheriff: his prized horse, her mane braided black, just like Jamie's own.
The sheriff fired and missed. That filthy bastard, his own horse! Gone now, like his fortune. His reputation. All of his hard work to get where he is now, gone. The guard dogs, barking and growling, were of no use now. The thief was already galloping half way out of town. People were beginning to wander out from their homes. Such a ruckus at this late hour and the esteemed sheriff, in his night clothes, gun in hand, firing at the road! They wanted answers.
He calmly sent them back to bed. It was none of their business and he kindly reminded them that everything was under control. The dogs barked in disagreement, and were swiftly silenced with a practiced yank on their leashes.
The sheriff went back inside. Glass crunching under his heel. Not many people who took things from him were prone to live, and Jamie, he swore, Jamie would be no exception.
The guard dogs howled at the moon. Somewhere, dusted bronze with sand, a lone dingo howled back.
