Warlock of the West

“Don’t you think the drought is hurtin’ people everywhere?” He kept his eyes on the road while he spoke to me.

“Stealing stones just hurts everyone worse.”

“That’s how you see it.”

“And how do you see it? These men are doing what they need to do to survive, so coming in to rob us all is okay? If it helps you and yours, pillaging is justified?”

“Never said that.” He scoffed at me now, pulling suddenly back from where he’d been and turning my way. My shoulders were pressed against the wood of the wall, my feet steeped in dirt, but he came stomping right on up to where I couldn’t move, then tipped his chin low and looked me dead in my eyes. “You think I’m just some hard-hearted criminal out rifling through pockets and roughing people up in my spare time, but you know nothin’ about me. You don’t know the half of what I’ve done or where I’ve come from… and sure as shit don’t know why. All you have is a name and a blind eye to go on, and stories that get told so twisted up, you’d think I’d spent a night or two with the devil himself. Maybe you ought not to listen to stories… and go on what you see with your own pretty eyes instead.”