Dear Louis L'Amour
Oct. 11th, 2006 11:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrI apologize profusely.
Yours Sincerely,
Megan
Seriously. I wanted to cheer my Sammikins up, so I thought 'hey, I'll give her western story a shot."
What it needs is to be shot and put out of its misery. Megan does not do westerns, at least not to judge by this. Ah, well. It's definitely a rough. Once I read more westerns, and do real research, I can polish it up a bit. Until then, just laugh and be amuzed.
I tried, Sip ^___^;;;;
Ahaha, also - kind of amusing story on the name. I picked it totally b/c it sounded like a cheezy spaghetti western sort of thing. I didn't know it was the name of a well known western movie ^^;; Ah, well. It stays.
On an unrelated note, I think they're going to kick my favorite off PR *cries* All b/c of that stupid cunt who needs to go the fuck away and I hope she rots in helll. Her clothes all fucking suck. *hiss*
Now, who can I con into making me a cool western icon for this story?
The sun was just starting to set when the stagecoach finally came in, kicking up even more dust, adding more ruckus to the evening noise.
More than a few people stopped to look and see what would spill from the coach.
Not what they most needed, of course, but this town was good for hoping – if not much else.
Dean tipped his hat to Mrs. Weathers and then continued on his way down the creaking walk. He gave ol’ Mathers a warning look as he passed the saloon.
“Sheriff,” Mathers said before ducking inside.
Dean shook his head and laughed softly, making a mental note to have Jamie hunt Mathers down later and lock him before he could get on to shouting and all – but his thoughts stopped short as his gaze fell on the man who half stepped, half stumbled from the stagecoach.
A city boy, that was for certain. Fine city boy, though. Built like one of the little birds Mei Lin had brought with her – yet he sensed the boy wasn’t as weak as that. He was dressed in city clothes, the kind of stuff you paid others to make for you, bought in fancy shops. Not a speck of dirt on him. Dean wondered how he stayed so clean, and hoped the boy wasn’t one of those fussy types. His eyes were blue, that much was clear even at a distance. Short-cropped, dark gold curls were visible for a moment before the boy covered them with a flat-brimmed hat.
Wasn’t really a boy either, Dean conceded. Just one of those men that always looked younger than they were.
In the next second, the boy – man – turned to the coach driver and started speaking low and fast, hands moving rapidly through the air. The driver just shook his head back and forth, and Dean knew immediately what the problem was.
“Problem?” he asked anyway, drawing close.
Ben, the driver, looked relieved. “Sheriff. Tell him I go no further.”
Dean nodded. “No further. Not until we rustle out the bandits robbing every coach that tries to go through the canyons.”
“I paid to go the full way, not to make half the journey only to be informed that half was all I would be getting.”
“You’ll be going the full way,” Dean said peaceably. “But you’d probably prefer to wait until the bandits aren’t waiting for you.”
The man merely glared at him.
“Names Dean Long.”
The glare lasted a moment longer, then the man nodded stiffly. “Nate O’Brien. Know a place a man can room for a bit?”
“I do.” Dean turned back to Ben. “He the only one?”
“Yes,” Nate said icily.
Dean turned away to hide the rolling of his eyes and beckoned for Nate to follow him. “Boston too boring for you?” he asked, not particularly caring that he was being rude. He swore he could feel that glare burning a hole in his back, and was kind of surprised when Nate answered.
“Boston has enough doctors; I figured they could do without me.”
A doctor? Dean turned to take a longer look at the man, but he didn’t learn anything new.
Well. That certainly made things a whole lot more interesting. He’d have to make certain Mr. Nate O’Brien liked their little town.
Because he wasn’t leaving.
Yours Sincerely,
Megan
Seriously. I wanted to cheer my Sammikins up, so I thought 'hey, I'll give her western story a shot."
What it needs is to be shot and put out of its misery. Megan does not do westerns, at least not to judge by this. Ah, well. It's definitely a rough. Once I read more westerns, and do real research, I can polish it up a bit. Until then, just laugh and be amuzed.
I tried, Sip ^___^;;;;
Ahaha, also - kind of amusing story on the name. I picked it totally b/c it sounded like a cheezy spaghetti western sort of thing. I didn't know it was the name of a well known western movie ^^;; Ah, well. It stays.
On an unrelated note, I think they're going to kick my favorite off PR *cries* All b/c of that stupid cunt who needs to go the fuck away and I hope she rots in helll. Her clothes all fucking suck. *hiss*
Now, who can I con into making me a cool western icon for this story?
Last Man Standing
The sun was just starting to set when the stagecoach finally came in, kicking up even more dust, adding more ruckus to the evening noise.
More than a few people stopped to look and see what would spill from the coach.
Not what they most needed, of course, but this town was good for hoping – if not much else.
Dean tipped his hat to Mrs. Weathers and then continued on his way down the creaking walk. He gave ol’ Mathers a warning look as he passed the saloon.
“Sheriff,” Mathers said before ducking inside.
Dean shook his head and laughed softly, making a mental note to have Jamie hunt Mathers down later and lock him before he could get on to shouting and all – but his thoughts stopped short as his gaze fell on the man who half stepped, half stumbled from the stagecoach.
A city boy, that was for certain. Fine city boy, though. Built like one of the little birds Mei Lin had brought with her – yet he sensed the boy wasn’t as weak as that. He was dressed in city clothes, the kind of stuff you paid others to make for you, bought in fancy shops. Not a speck of dirt on him. Dean wondered how he stayed so clean, and hoped the boy wasn’t one of those fussy types. His eyes were blue, that much was clear even at a distance. Short-cropped, dark gold curls were visible for a moment before the boy covered them with a flat-brimmed hat.
Wasn’t really a boy either, Dean conceded. Just one of those men that always looked younger than they were.
In the next second, the boy – man – turned to the coach driver and started speaking low and fast, hands moving rapidly through the air. The driver just shook his head back and forth, and Dean knew immediately what the problem was.
“Problem?” he asked anyway, drawing close.
Ben, the driver, looked relieved. “Sheriff. Tell him I go no further.”
Dean nodded. “No further. Not until we rustle out the bandits robbing every coach that tries to go through the canyons.”
“I paid to go the full way, not to make half the journey only to be informed that half was all I would be getting.”
“You’ll be going the full way,” Dean said peaceably. “But you’d probably prefer to wait until the bandits aren’t waiting for you.”
The man merely glared at him.
“Names Dean Long.”
The glare lasted a moment longer, then the man nodded stiffly. “Nate O’Brien. Know a place a man can room for a bit?”
“I do.” Dean turned back to Ben. “He the only one?”
“Yes,” Nate said icily.
Dean turned away to hide the rolling of his eyes and beckoned for Nate to follow him. “Boston too boring for you?” he asked, not particularly caring that he was being rude. He swore he could feel that glare burning a hole in his back, and was kind of surprised when Nate answered.
“Boston has enough doctors; I figured they could do without me.”
A doctor? Dean turned to take a longer look at the man, but he didn’t learn anything new.
Well. That certainly made things a whole lot more interesting. He’d have to make certain Mr. Nate O’Brien liked their little town.
Because he wasn’t leaving.
