Crumby

He kept doing finger flips with the toy revolver. A silver strand of tinsel lay in a puddle of lukewarm coffee on the table. The air smelt of cedar and spring. A crinkled handbill curled into itself on the wall behind him— the paper turned yellow and the desert air leeched any moisture— a dead man’s will.

He hummed a jaunty tune and tapped his foot offbeat as a fly flew around a corona of light from the window.

Brennan Cashel hid from the law— not that it tried too hard to find him.

Lawmen in the western reaches knew the price of tracking down a fast trigger hand. Glory or the sight of their own guts. Not many like to play those odds— save for the brave, foolish, or mad.

Miles away trekking over the Colorado Rockies, a man combined of all three remained in pursuit of Cashel. Not that Brennan knew or cared.

A long, angry swath of blistered skin proved constant reminder of his own last quest for glory.

Now he sat in empty land with nothing to show for it but a scarred face and scant crumbs.