The sun on his back, his next meal on his mind, and a bucket in hand. That's how Chris moved through the day, walking through the muddy stable while whistling a cheerful tune.
A beautiful horse had arrived the day before, the kind rarely seen around there.
An Andalusian, light gray coat with somewhat pink dapples. Truly striking. Rose Gray, that's what they were called, if Chris remembered correctly.
The animal had been given special treatment from the moment it arrived. Amos made it clear: whatever care was needed, it should start with that horse. And for good reason — the beautiful beast was worth no less than four hundred and forty dollars.
Almost a year's worth of Chris's sweat and labor.
And there he was now, headed to fill the stall with fresh water. Letting the boss's prize horse go thirsty wasn't a smart idea.
The animal was calm, well-trained. It stood still, peaceful, as Chris opened the gate and stepped inside. A few solid pats on the neck and a crisp apple were enough to keep it busy while he poured the water.
"Truly a magnificent animal," Chris thought, admiring it.
He had long dreamed of having a horse of his own. Not that he really needed one, he just wanted it. Wanted it for the wanting. Even the cheapest Morgan cost about fifty-five dollars, a sum completely out of reach for someone barely affording a roof and a bowl of soup.
Two weeks of work had earned him twelve, after expenses.
And learning the basics of taming and riding — courtesy of Amos, who wanted him better prepared to handle the animals — had only worsened the craving.
But Chris didn't plan to shovel dung forever. Not when there were easier ways to make money in this world, tucked away inside his memory.
He couldn't spend the rest of his life with a pitchfork in hand.
Chris was deep in thought, lost in his own mental gears, when a cold sensation at the back of his neck jolted him. A frozen kiss that sent shivers down his spine. It had never happened to him before, and still, he knew exactly what it was.
The barrel of a gun.
"Don't move, kid," came a muffled voice, slow and breathy.
Chris froze.
The bucket slipped from his hands and toppled, water splashing into the mud.
The feel of cold steel on his skin was the most real thing in the world at that moment. No sound. No breath. Just the dull pounding of his own heart.
"Turn your head. Slowly." The voice continued, cruelly calm.
Chris obeyed, inching his chin over his shoulder.
The man was thin, with a pale, dirty face wrapped in a dark bandana that covered the lower half of his face. Sunken, bloodshot eyes stared down the sights. The revolver pressed firm. No tremble. No hesitation. He had done this before.
"I need a fast horse," the man hissed. "Now. Quiet."
Chris didn't answer.
"Take the one in stall six. Saddle it. Quick."
His eyes widened.
Stall six was the Andalusian. The most expensive horse in the stable.
"I can't." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The gun pressed harder.
"You gonna die over a damn horse?"
Chris hesitated.
But before he could act, a sharp click snapped through the air, and a low whistle followed from the far end of the stable.
"You better lower that gun, bastard." It was Amos.
The old man stood just a few meters away, double-barreled shotgun aimed and ready on his shoulder.
"Trash like you's not taking anything from here," Amos growled. "Not the horse. Not the boy."
The gunman hesitated — just for a second — and that was all it took.
Chris exploded into motion. He spun and shoved the man's arm hard, knocking the barrel aside. The shot went off, echoing loud, the bullet ripping into some beam up high.
Amos's shotgun floated, its tip swinging. He was looking for an aim that didn't exist, not with the two of them so close together. His finger didn't squeeze the trigger. He couldn't.
One wrong shot and the boy would go down with it too.
Chris threw a clumsy punch. Took one to the chin, but held the gun arm away: up, down, to the side, but never toward him.
And then, a blast — boom— and the fight ended.
Only it wasn't Amos who had fired.
It was Chris.
The man was flung backward, collapsing with a dull grunt.
Chris stood frozen, shaking, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. Blood spattered across his face dripped into his mouth, the sickly taste of iron coating his tongue.
Amos stepped toward him, lowering the shotgun.
"You alright?"
Chris only nodded.
The old man looked at the body.
"He's not the first to try," he murmured. "But that was too damn close."
…
Chris stared at the ceiling for hours, lying on his side, his body still trembling at intervals. Deep into the night, he still couldn't sleep.
The metallic taste lingered in his mouth. He knew it wasn't blood anymore, just memory. Even so, he kept rinsing his mouth over and over, trying in vain to get rid of it.
The shot kept echoing in his thoughts, looping again and again. The smell of gunpowder. The thud of the falling body. The man he had… killed.
He didn't regret it. But he didn't feel good either. It had been necessary, sure. But… was it too easy? Just like that, a life ended by his hand.
The morning before, he had been brushing a horse. Now there was dried blood on his shirt sleeve.
He sat up and buried his face in his hands.
Through his fingers, he looked at the revolver lying on the nightstand, the same Cattleman Revolver Amos had handed him. The same one that had nearly taken his life, and that he had used to take one.
It wasn't just fear he felt. It was something else. A weight on his shoulders. An unease not rooted in guilt, but in the awareness of the brutality of the world around him.
Here, things weren't good or bad. They just happened.
And if he wanted to survive… he couldn't be just "the stable boy" anymore.
The next morning, when he stepped out onto the street, something had changed.
The looks, Chris could feel every single one of them. They weren't the wary stares he'd received when he first arrived, nor the casual nods of recent weeks.
No…
They were something between fear and respect. Or both.
The blacksmith was the first to nod. The saloon clerk greeted him with a firm good morning. The general store owner, once indifferent, offered him fresh bread at half the price.
Chris wasn't sure if he liked it.
Everyone knew. No one blamed him. It had been clear-cut self-defense, backed by Amos Levi's word — a man known and respected in town. But none of that changed the fact that now, he was the boy who killed the bandit.
At the stable, Amos was different too. No smile, no greeting. He simply handed Chris a new shovel, the handle freshly sanded and smooth, and went back to work.
Later, at the end of the day, they sat side by side in silence, as they sometimes did.
"Killed like someone who didn't want to," the old man said, not looking at him. "That's better than most."
Chris stared at the dirt.
"It was just… instinct," he murmured.
"Yeah. It always is. But after this, nothing's the same. You know that already, don't you?"
Chris nodded slowly.
The old man took a drag from his cigarette, then offered one to the boy.
Chris shook his head this time.
"I didn't like how it felt," he said.
Amos grunted through his nose.
"Then you're one of the good ones. But you're gonna have to get strong to stay that way."