Dusty Western Track by Dave Rigby

A man wearing a hat is up ahead, holsters strapped to left and right thigh, each holding a six-shooter. He’s running.

The first thing that strikes you is the horse. There isn’t one. Why is the man running?

The second thing that strikes you is the feeling you’re in danger.

You look down at dust-covered boots. They feel solid and comfortable. But they’re not your boots. The trousers are worn and frayed at the ends. They’re not yours either. But the nightshirt tucked into the trousers is yours.

Your head is throbbing. Reaching up you touch a bandage. When you examine your fingers, there are smears of blood.

You’ve no memory of the clothes, the head wound, or how you got here.

The man is still running, getting further and further away.

A sudden squall blows dust in your face, your eyes water, you spit and spit, breathing is difficult. By the time you’re finally able to open your eyes, the man has disappeared.

You keep walking hoping to clear your mind, hoping for some clue or some memory to fall into place.

A huge cactus stands by the side of the dusty track its spines threatening. A merciless orange sun beats down on you. In the distance there’s a derelict house, its roof half-collapsed, window and door frames missing.

Maybe he’s in there. Something drives you forward, despite the obvious risks. You need to find out. Your pace quickens. When you reach the barn, you duck inside without thinking, instant relief from the sun as you shelter under an undamaged section of roof.

He could have been there in front of you, guns levelled but there’s no sign of him. You sit on the bare floor, back against the wall. Despite everything and all that you don’t know, you fall asleep.

You dream of your mistakes, real ones and imagined ones. You dream of a man running down the road a man who turns into a horse. You dream of talking to the law, of a betrayal as it will be seen.

By the time you wake, you’re gazing up at stars and you’re cold, so cold.

He’s standing over you. A broken nose, scrawny beard, missing teeth, eyes narrowed. Your time has come, but all you can think about is those missing teeth, more gaps than teeth and the smell of his breath, too close to your face.

A sudden vision of a broken window, flames licking around the drapes, the panic. How could you have forgotten? A figure outside in the dawn half-light watching you, a tiny pinprick of red, a puff of smoke. They’d promised revenge. He was there to deliver, the man with the six-shooters.

The nightmare unfolds in your head.

You remember running hell for leather in your night clothes, just wanting to survive. In your panic you’d fallen, hit you head on the rocky ground, blood everywhere, jagged pain. The neighbour you’d barely spoken to for years, an old feud, had helped with a makeshift bandage. Borrowed boots and borrowed trousers. There was no going back. Not really a decision – just instinctive self-preservation.

Except it hadn’t worked, because here he is, looming above you. You try to speak but your throat is parched and you’re unable to utter a word.

It’s almost a shock when he places a blanket around your shoulders. The man with the missing teeth smiles a crooked smile as he helps you to your feet and points to the corner of the barn. A hunched shape in the moonlight, the man with the six shooters, except he no longer has them.