A Firm Grip

The dry morning breeze cut across my face, carrying the scent of parched earth. I blinked, realizing my fingers could actually move. My right hand flexed around the worn grip of the revolver, feeling the cold weight of the iron cylinder. I eased my stance, letting the muzzle drop slightly as I surveyed the scrub brush and the timber beams jutting from the adobe wall behind me. Everything stood still under the pale sky. I tightened my gloved fingers, testing the balance of the steel, and settled my boots into the dust.