The Philosopher Pistol

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The Philosopher Pistol (Part 2)

I wrapped my fingers round the cold hard butt of my revolver. Squeeze, don't pull. Squeeze don't pull. They had drilled this mantra into our heads during training. If you pull the trigger, as opposed to squeezing the trigger, you'll miss high and over their heads. Halfway to Najadima - a little village in the middle of the desert - What it lacked in size, it made up for in villainy. They say only two kinds of men go to Najadima. Men who are fixing to kill, and men who are fixing to die - I headed where the work was. And the work was in Najadima. Evil lurked around these parts. I had been walking through the desert for days - water running low, no natives to speak of, no hope to be found. No, my only prospect was a bounty hunter named Floyd who'd gone off the reservation, started taking out high-ranking military officers. Now Floyd had a bounty on his head so high, he couldn't take a piss without somebody informing on it.

The general let me go. It was either I left, or his brains all over his desk - his choice. I made him sign the form and hightailed it out of Cairo as fast as I could. Three years, and dozens of bounties later, I was on my way to Najadima, with Floyd on my mind.

Next (Part 3)