A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…
The vigilantes had been hunting her for three generations, though they no longer had any idea why.
In a street of tamped earth next to a stockyard full of bawling beeves, they finally found her. Tiny, she was and as wizened as a season-dead black beetle, but the twin sixguns were rock steady in her hands.
The shooting commenced, and she pretty soon took four loads of buckshot which all but blew her in half.
Only she wouldn’t die. Just kept on shooting.
When they were all gone, she grinned toothlessly and turned back to her interrupted poker game.
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