Scareship_Issue8

his hand at wrangling and rustling, and was equally adept at both.
But he didn’t like being in a herd either way, so mostly he earned
his keep by playing cards. His steely nerves, quick mind and
unnatural luck, backed up by the lightning thunder of his Colt
revolver, made him a legend in those parts. “Mad Gilly Games”, he
came to be called. And since that was what they called him, then
that was who he was.
As he growed into a man, Gilly exercised the third of his three
great gifts with uncommon regularity, pirooting many a rancher’s
daughter, shopkeeper’s wife and saloon gal along the trail. He had
a way of treating the ladies like whores and the whores like ladies,
which was a tendency oft appreciated by both. But he and Horse
never settled down too long in any one place. And, after a while,
every new town they’d get to, Gilly would find that his reputation
had preceded him, sometimes necessitating gunplay that would
require his ongoing perambulations.
In this way, years crawlt by until a decade had snuck passed.
And after all that time, Mad Gilly Games had kilt enough men,
bedded enough women, and drawn to enough inside straights to
last a lifetime or two. A hankering for something else was growing
inside him and stabbing at his innards, as if he swallered a set of
red hot silver spurs. Gilly’s skin still glowed bronze, but it had lost
its luster. His quick smile had slowed. Too many mornings, it was
like he carried a brick in his hat. And so, on one random Texas
morning, he and Horse started riding north.
Mad Gilly was going home.
A Falling Starr
Gilly got down offa Horse and stood in the middle of Rook,
ankle deep in guts and glory. “I declare this town free of Bull
Evans, and his master, Newton Starr!” he called out. “You folks is
now under my protec—”
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