The Wicked Witch of Wichita · 5:04am Dec 14th, 2019
I ran across that Tumblr post again, about how witches and cowboys had a lot in common, and I was just too tickled by the idea not to obsess over it for the last two days. I've been going back and forth all day at work on how witchy magic might mix with cowboy culture, and honestly? It's awesome. It got a bit of writing out of me at least!
Raucous laughter filled the dingy saloon as a pair of shots rang out, flipping the ratty pointed hat in the air as it tumbled to the floor. “And that’s what I think of damn witches!” howled Charlie McGraw as he blew the smoke out of his six gun. The others cheered, sloshing their whiskey as they toasted another hunt.
The Khoth bartender glared at them with slitted pupils as the last of his patrons quietly escaped. The bounty hunters had barged into his tavern shortly before noon, crowing and howling over their trophy, and hadn’t stopped drinking since. It was bad business, those witch hunters. Killing the pests was one thing, but the last thing he wanted was them drawing her coven’s ire onto his establishment.
Plus, they were just bad for business, driving off the other customers like that.
“Aye, whiptail! Another round for the table!”
The bartender twitched at the insult, a secondary eyelid flicking across his iris. He barely suppressed a snarl as his tail thrashed wildly behind the counter. “Ssseven tawsss,” he hissed, claws digging into the wooden floor.
One of the cowboys threw a leather pouch at him. It burst open, sending the brass marbles everywhere. The bartender glared, scooped up the money before pouring the drinks. He pushed them across the counter, where one of the drunken bastards caught them, giving him the stinkeye.
“Hey, you lizards are pretty occultish yerselves…” he clumsily fingered the handle of his revolver. “I think i caught you givin us the evil eye a minute ago.”
The bartender narrowed his eyes, his claw tightening around the jar of everflame he kept under the counter. Khothii weren’t allowed to own firearms, at least in town, but there were no such restrictions on general alchemical potions. “I think it’sss time for you to leave,” he hissed.
“Do you now,” the cowboy growled, grip tightening on his weapon.
Just then, the saloon doors slammed open, and the air seemed to chill as the sunlight silhouetted the shadow of a tall, dark figure with black clothes and a tall, wide brimmed pointed hat. The cowboys froze, staring at the figure as she stepped into the room, slowly turning her head this way and that. Her cold grey eyes fixed on the tattered hat on the floor.
“I’m looking,” the old witch rasped in a guttural, wheezing tone, “for the men who slaughtered my sisters.”
The men shifted anxiously, fingering their pieces. The bartender stepped back, casually slipping the everflame jar behind his back. Charlie McGraw stepped forward, tipping his stetson. “Howdy do, Miss. Can I offer you a drink?”
The witch pinned him in place with a piercing glare. “You. You’re the one who led the assault on the Diamondback Coven.” It was a statement, not a question.
Charlie smirked cockily. “My boys and I might be familiar with that name.” The others chuckled behind him, fanning out to surround the witch. The witch followed them with her eyes, never moving or adjusting her position.
“I see,” she said simply. “Well then.”
She threw back her shoulders. He cape fanned open as a pair of sterling silver revolvers flew into her hands. There was a flash, and what sounded like a single shot, and all six of the henchmen fell dead.
Charlie stumbled back, fumbling with his weapon, but she was on him in a blink. She loomed over him, the barrel of one pistol tucked under his chin. “Blood for blood,” she hissed, “justice must be paid.”
And his head vanished in a red mist.
The witch stepped back, prodding the excapitated cowboy with her foot. Then she turned to the bartender. Her pistols were gone, a modest gold taw pinched between her fingers instead. She flicked it to the bartender, who caught it deftly. “Thank you kindly for the tip,” she chuckled, tipping her hat as she stalked out the door.
The bartender grinned, pocketing the taw along with the smaller domination beads from the cowboys. Sometimes, a bad business day turned around. He grabbed an empty glass, allowing a sharp toothed grin to flick across his face as he set to polishing.
It was always rewarding to work with the Wicked Witch of Wichita.
I want more of this, honestly.
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I have a lot more thoughts on it! I just need to figure out how to make a story of it