Roland held tight to his Winchester, as the stage-coach shook more violently on the rough terrain. His boot heel caught against the long rosewood case, keeping it from sliding about. “That sure is a nice lookin’ gun you got there Mister.” The driver said as he eyed the silver sheen from the corner of his eye. Roland did not respond. He suspected the driver knew well enough why his gun was silver plated. Just as he’d probably seen the scars on his ears, after sitting side by side for hours now. If the driver had held any reservation with doing business with his kind, the gold he’d been offered for this ride had overcome them.
“Mister, you sure you want to be coming out this far? Ain’t nothin’ this way but Apache, elves, and death.” The driver asked, not bothering to face Roland as he asked.
“If you are feeling scared, you can always refund my fare,” Roland said, keeping his own eyes on the horizon. The driver spit and said nothing more for the remaining ten miles. As the stage slowed to a halt, Roland dropped down to the dusty red soil, leaning his rifle against the coach as he retrieved the ornate wooden case and slung it over his shoulder with a leather strap. “Two days,” Roland said.
“What if you’re dead in two days?”
“I won’t be.” Roland adjusted his hat, pulling it down tight to shield his sensitive eyes. He walked away, waiting until he’d heard the clatter of the stage’s retreat before he stopped. He dropped the rifle and pulled his Colt from its holster on his hip, discarding it as well. Even through the silver plating the iron distorted his senses. As he stepped away from the weapons the world snapped into focus, and he could sense his place in it. More importantly he could sense another. Now he had two days to find and kill that man.