the smuggler’s bible


The dust is blowing so hard that they have to postpone the duel past sunrise and into the afternoon before they get can get a decent glare off of the salt flats to set the mood.

“I figger we have maybe twenty minutes to get this done,” Rawhide shouts. There’s a bandana over his face to keep the dust out of his mouth, and he’s squinting against the grit. “That cool?”

A second later a bullet whips out of the cloud. Rawhide thinks that’s kind of a dick move, but then again, it’s not like they’re dueling cause they’re buddies.