Gunslingers.

Author's Note: This is Flash Fiction of the Old West. The Wild West.

*****
“Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.”

Grey smoke hung in the air. Four men lay in the dust and manure of Main Street. Blood left a stain on the dirt, souls left the bodies on the dirt.

She looked around to see if any more men would try their luck.

One of them spoke up.

“That’s some good shooting girl.”

Her eyes were still cold from delivering death at the end of a smoking barrel.

“How would you know?”

He smiled and pointed at the dead men sprawled on the ground. Each with a single bullet whole just to the right of their sternum.

She nodded acknowledgment with a brief flick of her eyes.

“My name is John.”

“Is that your real name?”

He smiled as he took his hat off to wipe his brown.

“Well…yeah…but some folks call me the Sirocco Kid.”

Her eyes widened. Her mouth grew dry. Her hand nestled against the still warm handle of her twin colt forty fives.

“You calling me out?”

He smiled and put his hat back on. One boot scuffed the dirt in a small circular pattern. He looked, for a moment, like nothing more than a shy kid in a school yard somewhere…talking to a girl for the first time.

“Nope. I was thinking of asking you to marry me.”

She moved her hand from the hilt of her revolver. Nineteen notches slid under the light touch of her fingers. Four more to be added today.

“Well, what if we don’t get along?”

“I think people would pay a hefty fee to see that shootout. And I wouldn’t bet against you…or me.”

She laughed. It had been a long time since a man made her laugh. It was a good sign. Good enough for her.

“My name is Jane."