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 An Interview With Landon Ricketts

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LandonRicketts

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Posts : 5
Join date : 2012-06-03
Location : Chuparosa

PostSubject: An Interview With Landon Ricketts   Mon Jun 04, 2012 2:44 pm

The gunfighter reclined in his chair, his gnarly old hands lifted a glass to his lips and he noisily chugged his whiskey. His features were deeply woven into his face, and when he finished his drink and smiled, laugh lines tugged at his innocent eyes. The reporter sitting opposite Landon Ricketts noted how odd it was that the weather worn cowboy has such childlike eyes. He had interviewed other famous men before, but never one famous for killing in duels. Military officials and outlaws going to the rope were different. They were either following or breaking the law. But this man lived in a time when his gun was the law, and the holder was a judge, jury and executioner. He had outlived all the others, and more than that, he was still active. He decided that would be a good first question.

"Locals south of the border still talk about you. I hear you hate the government here, but you haven't given any official support to the rebel bands."

"Yeah, that's true," said the gunslinger slowly in a gravely baritone voice. "The government here is a breeding ground for cowards. They kill teachers and doctors and farmers. The rebels want to change all that. But power is mysterious thing, and those who run the rebel outfit couldn't sing in a church choir without a cross falling on their heads."

"You're a man of religion?" asked the reporter.

The older man smiled, his eyes glistened. "Not in any traditional sense. We all have our views, and the more we keep them to ourselves the better off we'll be."

The reporter scribbled something down, then looked up at Landon, adjusting his glasses as he did so. "So what is your job here? What are you doing for a living?"

Ricketts leaned forward in his chair. "Look around, son. There's plenty to do here. People here don't worry about being happy, they worry about going hungry. Most are robbed from daily by the rich. They need a voice."

The reporter said quickly without thinking, "They need a gun." He blushed immediately and looked apologetically at the gunman.

Ricketts gave a stern nod. "A gun," he echoed in a grave tone. "I keep the law here, since the local officials are either too scared or too corrupt to see justice is done. And there's only one way to keep the law where the law is weak. With a gun, sir, with a gun and a man who isn't afraid or unable to shoot to kill."

The reporter couldn't help but shiver at the thought. Law back home in the states wasn't perfect, but it seemed a lot better that the law in Chuparosa. "Just one more thing. . . how many men have you killed?"

Landon Rickkets waved for a waitress. "Si, senior?" asked a young girl, pretty but too thin for her age. "Another whiskey," he said with a charming smile. She nodded and turned off. Ricketts turned back to the reporter. "I'm sorry, the last time I took count--" A gunshot went off outside, followed by a woman's scream. A heavyset wobbly man burst through the cantina door. He had a gun in his right hand, the barrel still smoking. "This is a hold up!" he demanded like an actor who had practiced his line for weeks. The man then grabbed the young waitress, causing her drinks to fall. He couldn't have known that by breaking those dishes she would be docked a weeks pay, and go a little more hungry.

The reporter had frozen, but Landon Ricketts had not. The old man was up in a flash and his gun was suddenly in his hand. The stranger only had time to stutter before there was a flash and the drunk man staggered backwards. Another flash, and another. The man was out dead, and Ricketts was sliding his gun back in its holster. The girl began crying, the owner of the cantina began shouter, and the patrons began returning to their drinks. "Twenty-five, not including the war," Landon said to the reporter without sitting down. "I need to see if there is more of them." With a tip of his hat, Ricketts walked out of the dim smokey bar into the bright Mexican sun. The reporter watched the black silhouette of the aging legend and thought as he finished his own drink how sad it was that Landon Ricketts was a dying breed.
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