When the Spirit Speaks

Colt smelled his own sweat, the kind that comes from days unwashed spent in the heat, tinged with adrenalin and just a dash of fear. He stared out at the barren desert road. It was too hot, dry, and deadly where he lay for even the desert lizards to venture out. The hills surrounding him were rough rock from the beginning of time that gradually wore out into the sand at their base; sand that had absorbed the blood and tears of centuries of battles. War, and the type of men who made war, met in this hostile land to make it as close to hell on Earth as the human mind could fathom. That was true for the natives as well as those who trod on the unfamiliar soil of Iran. 

The heat was ferocious, making breathing a task that almost required thought. The slight winds that the mind said would cool merely acted as a carrier for the small sand particles that attacked the eyes and uncovered skin and snuck under clothing to make every part of the body ache for relief. 

Colt's dirty, native clothing let him blend into his surroundings as he lay near the top of the hill among the rocks, rifle sighted. In the valley behind him were horses and companions, waiting for him to perform his task. He had lain thus for hours, knowing his quarry would come, yet not knowing when. His was a job of impatient patience, with death the period at the end of his sentence.

He finally saw the vehicles in the distance, or at least the dust they raised as they crawled over the rough road closer to his position. Sweat soaked through the dirty thin material of his native shirt and the headcloth wrapped around his head, then dripped into his eyes. He merely blinked it away, afraid any movement would bring attention to him and ruin his chances at one shot.

That was all Colt sought…one shot. He was trained for that one shot, and he did that as easily and naturally as most men breathed or laughed. 

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Second place 2026 Wyoming Writers Adult Fiction