originally published by san antonio writers guild

  The bullet missed his head, four inches to the right. The horse fell hard and fast; the impact lifted sawdust from the barn floor. The man in the nut brown hat turned and left. Patsy Clyde was gone. Blood stained the trophy and Newt died inside. 

He knew the deal was bad. A second bullet entered Patsy, this one delivered by her best friend. She looked at Newt for the last time, questioning each brush stroke, each caress. Patsy would never ride again. Newt buried her underneath the knobbed elm. He leaned the trophy against its gigantic trunk and wept.