Deadeye & Friends: Deadeye, #1

By Aaron Abilene

A legendary gunfighter teams up with 2 bumbling idiot bounty hunters and their friends to bring down a gang of outlaws.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Syphon Creative
• Release date: Feb 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223527077

Book preview

Deadeye & Friends

Written by Aaron Abilene

Deadeye Dallas Davis was the most famous gunfighter in the world. He'd been born and bred in the middle of the Wild West, and from an early age had developed an uncanny knack for shooting, and an even more uncanny ability to get out of dangerous situations unscathed.

He'd started out as a young man, taking odd jobs in towns all over the map. No matter the situation, he'd never failed to come out on top. If he'd been hired to fight, he'd do it without hesitation. If he'd been hired to protect, he'd do it without fear. His reputation as a force to be reckoned with had spread quickly, and soon enough he was being called in for the most dangerous of missions.

Today, however, he was on a different kind of mission. A mission of mercy. A mission that he'd been paid handsomely to make sure went off without a hitch. He sat atop his horse, squinting into the blazing sun as he rode into town. He had a briefcase full of money, a gun on his hip, and a mission to carry out. He just hoped he'd make it out alive.

––––––––

Deadeye Dallas Davis was a man of simple pleasures and simple needs, a man of the land and the desert. He lived out of his saddle and enjoyed a good whiskey from time to time.

Dallas’s hand felt like leather wrapped steel. Battered and hard with calluses from all the grip-shooting galleries he’d worked in as a kid.

His gun, a Colt Walker, was shining, clean and oiled, there were no dents or scratches on his gun. He was an expert gunsmith and had restored it to perfection.

––––––––

Deadeye Dallas Davis was a man of few words and even fewer grunts. What he lacked in conversation, he made up in the thunder of his guns. Gunfights were his art and he was the finest artist alive. His guns didn't just speak, they sung.

The beat of his spurs was thunder, and the swing of his six-shooters was lightning.

The clicking of spurs told you he was coming long before you heard him. The wind, as it rustled through the cactus and brush, before it started to shake.

––––––––

With each step, you’d taste rust and .45

The whiskey was burning, the smell was in your nose and throat. The acidy flavor was coating your tongue.

––––––––

Deadeye Dallas Davis smelled of leather, gun oil, and the musk of fresh blood. His coat and duster hid his gun belt and holster from view.

You could smell the brimstone and gunpowder, the burning wood and campfire in the air when he walked up to you.

His gun leather smelled of aged leather and oil, the leather wrapping had been broken and rewrapped. The metal smelled of the coal oil and the old gunpowder, smoking out the barrel with a vengeance.

Deadeye Dallas Davis was a man of average height with a gaunt face, freckled nose, and thin lips. He wore a black hat with a gray band, a long duster coat, and brown pants tucked into his high black boots.

When Dallas’s boots hit the earth, a twenty-foot-tall fiery cowboy that’d put a midget in his pocket with the trigger of his Colt .45. He wore a ten-gallon hat, a black leather duster, and a leather cowboy hat. His hair was a horse’s tail, a chiseled jawline, and his cold grey eyes were the color of a stormy sea.

Deadeye Dallas Davis, the most famous gunfighter in the world. He walked into the saloon. His chiseled jaw and his clothes dusty. He smelled like Texas, the dry dust and the cactus flower.

––––––––

Bumbling idiot bounty hunter Brisket and his partner, Bowls, had been tracking the notorious outlaw, Sonny Sharpe, for weeks. Their pursuit had taken them all over the badlands, from the dusty deserts of Arizona to the rolling hills of Wyoming. But they were no closer to apprehending him.

Just when all seemed lost, they happened upon Deadeye Dallas Davis, the greatest bounty hunter in the West. He had a reputation for being able to find anyone, and even better, take them down.

Brisket and Bowls, desperate to make their mark, offered to team up with Deadeye Dallas. After a brief discussion, they agreed that the three of them would follow Sharpe's trail and bring him to justice.

The trio set off, and within a few days, they had tracked down Sharpe at a small saloon in the middle of nowhere. With guns drawn, they burst through the door, only to find Sharpe standing at the bar with a drink in his hand, calmly waiting for them.

The confrontation was brief and violent. Sharpe was no match for Deadeye Dallas, who quickly subdued him and handed him over to Brisket and Bowls. The two looked on in awe, grateful for the legendary bounty hunter's help. With Sharpe now in custody, they were sure to earn praise and recognition from the lawmen all across the West.

A bounty hunter with a name that seemed to mock his prowess, Brisket was new on the job, and it had taken him three weeks to capture one outlaw. He hadn't managed to capture any other criminals since then, but he still had high hopes that if he could just prove himself, he would soon be tracking down each criminal in turn. Bowls, his partner, had been at it for years and said this was just part of the job.

The sun was high in the sky, and its rays shone bright on the dusty earth that stretched as far as she could see. Texas was at its hottest this time of year, but Iris wasn't about to complain—it was good to be alive. The horses ambled along the narrow dirt track that led from town, their gentle snorts floating through the air. Beside her sat Brisket, an idiot bounty hunter whose mother had named him for his favorite food. He carried a soggy cigar butt in his toothless mouth like he was chewing tobacco—which is exactly what he was doing. His fat partner, Bowls, rode alongside. He chuckled at something Brisket said, and then spat out a long brown stream of saliva into the dirt.Light fingered southpaw Brisket is looking anything but, as his partner Bowls is stuffing him with one of Ma Beauregard’s plump chicken breasts. Brisket, who is tall and lean, his legs not long enough to reach the ground, shakes the feathers and bones from his hair before taking a bite. He smacks his lips and grins. Bowls, a squat man with a round head, a pug nose and a thin moustache, is just about to take a bite of his own chicken leg when a shot rings out from the street. They both look down the street where a woman stands in the doorway with a smoking gun in her hand and a look