The Lawbringer
Western Cowboy Fantasy
They called him the Lawbringer. The West was a wasteland at the beginning, before the influence of the East. The colonies had an air of superiority with their culture, with their fancy machines and smokestacks which stretched far above the sky, covering their land in a cloud of smog as if to signal to travelers who owned it. They were prideful, egotistical people. It wasn’t surprising when members of their culture decided they’d had enough with its teachings and settled west after promises of gold echoed through the colonies. Unbeknownst to them, there were already societies in the west. Cultures like mine were decimated by the endless expansion. In this lawless world there needed to be one to bring justice. I first met the Lawbringer at the age of six, when he and his posse strolled into my clan and deemed our culture barbaric. He threatened that if we were not to turn to the one true god, we would be damned to hell for eternity. It was true that our gods had been at war, a war caused by the constant infighting amongst humanity. Our spells were nothing compared to the man clad in the Cattleman hat, brandishing a .45. With one breath, he infused an incantation into the metal casing held between his fingers, and fired. The shockwave emitted by the blast demolished my village as I took cover. Six bullets, that’s how many it took to slaughter my people. Getting back on my feet, I was quickly discovered by the Lawbringer. Rather than ending my life where I stood he decided to raise me as his own. This is the story of the Lawbringer, the man who I called father.
Our gang traveled the barren region of the western fault. The ground in the region was crackled and dry, the yellow shrubbery barely clinging to life under the harsh sun. Scorpions intermittently passed over the rocks which riddled the scenery. Cacti sprouted from the sediment as tumbleweeds drifted between them. We passed from town to town, witnessing the way humanity survived in this harsh environment. Back then, when this place was still lawless, altruism was a privilege not many had. The towns were often hubs which displayed the only kindness people could spare. Many other traveling packs meandered between the towns. We occasionally encountered these folk, oftentimes leading to conflict between the groups.
I recalled a time when we encountered a man from the East, a colonial who had come to the west for business. He wore a black suit, a long black beard hanging from his chin. Atop his head clung a tall top hat, seemingly waving in the wind as he strutted along. He wore a hip holster, which instead of housing a handgun, housed a long wooden stick. Our group met the man at a saloon in the town we were visiting. The Lawbringer never drank, instead he sat at the bar in silent thought. He frequently indulged in silence, many of us assuming he used any moment he could for prayer. Meditation and devotion to religion was his favorite pastime. After many passing glances, the eastern man approached the Lawbringer.
“Hey you’re that Lawbringer gentleman,” he slurred his words. “I heard o’ you.”
“What’s it to you?” The Lawbringer grumbled, annoyed that his prayer was interrupted.
“I just have a question fer you,” the eastern man spoke. “What law do you happen to ‘bring?’ Both of us know ain’t no law in these parts.”
“I bring the law of god,” he explained simply. “I am the patron saint of the west.”
“Speaking of…” the Lawbringer continued, now standing. “I hear you colonizer folk slaughtered your natives.”
“You ain’t much different, I see you got a redskin boy with you,” the eastern man said, pointing to me. “He just fall out of a plum tree?”
“The difference is, I killed his tribe for a reason. They was sinning,” the Lawbringer scolded. “Your people slaughtered them folk for no good reason. And that my boy, that’s a sin.” He placed a hand on his revolver as he spoke.
“Let’s not upset these kind folks’ evenin’ now,” the well-dressed man stammered. “How about we take this outside?”
“I think we shall.”
We gathered outside the saloon on the town’s main strip, viewing the scene before us. The two men stood at either end of the street. The Lawbringer’s right hand sat on his holster, gripping his .45. His large Cattleman hat cast a shadow atop his figure, clad in leather chaps and large boots. The man opposite him rested his hand on his holster as well, still housing the strange wooden rod in place of a firearm. I had heard stories of eastern magicians. These folk used sticks to cast spells instead of guns. They called them wands, and with a simple flick of the wrist, they could use magic. At the time I had never heard of such a thing and the concept seemed entirely foreign to me. I recalled my first time casting a spell, when the Lawbringer taught me to shoot.
His large form needed to crouch to my level, huddling beside me and showing me how to hold the weapon. I aimed the metal firearm and shot, the bullet striking right at the cactus flower I was aiming for. He gave me a slight praise, and then began showing me how to shoot a spell. He handed me an empty casing, telling me to concentrate on the spell and breathe its essence into the bullet. I curled my lips and held the metal casing to my mouth, blowing cool air onto it as the piece of gunpowder I held glowed with a soft magenta. It had been enchanted. I again aimed and fired at the cactus, the plant now exploding with a burst of flames.
I often find myself reminiscing on these memories, missing the man who raised me. I then recall the awful atrocities he had committed in the name of religion, the pain he caused on many innocent people. If that man from the East hadn’t met him that day, and burst him to flames with a flick of his wand, I’m unsure if anyone else would have stood up to him. The Lawbringer died in the most fitting way he could’ve, painfully and agonizing. However I find myself pondering on his final words, begging me to help him as he burnt to a crisp.