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The WILDER WEST...
the ART & WIT & WISDOM of DAVE WILDER
Louis L'Amour Redux
It was quiet, too damn quiet.
Crouched
behind a boulder in the blistering heat of an August afternoon Virgil
Justice took stock of his current predicament. The hole in his left
side was still bleeding badly and the mixture of blood and sweat glued
his shirt to his skin. The lead slug had gone clean through an inch
below his rib cage and he tried to tell himself the wound wasn't fatal.
The thought didn't bring much comfort as the pain and the heat
conspired to fog his mind and dull his reflexes. He knew that he would
need every ounce of strength and all the wits he possessed to survive
the ordeal that was to come. He checked the action on his trusty Colt
revolver and counted the cartridges that remained in the loops of his
belt. Twelve. Might be just enough if a whisper of luck were to come
his way. Pulling his Stetson down low to shade his eyes he took a
chance and stole a look down at the dusty valley below.
His
lame and windblown horse still lay at the base of the cliff where he
had put the poor beast out of its misery. No buzzards had yet appeared
and nothing but dust devils seemed to be moving on the flat, lifeless
plain. Or was there? Off to the west a cloud of dust was moving against
the wind. Squinting against the glare he could soon see them, twenty
armed men riding hard along the trail he had just taken. It was the
Logan gang all right, crazed with rotgut whisky and hell bent on
revenge for the death of their leader whom Virgil had been forced to
kill in self-defense. There were too many of them and Virgil knew it.
Soon they would be on top of him. He felt the bile rise in the back of
his throat as a cold chill raced down his spine. "Fuck it," he said and
pulled out his cell phone to dial 911.
—Dave Wilder
'Om on the Range'
Dave Wilder's art can be seen at:
and at the
Laughing Raven Gallery
417 Hull Ave. Jerome, Arizona
and onfacebook:
"David Wilder Arts"
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