Wings Revenge

Hey, Western fans! I poured my heart into this gritty tale, heavily inspired by the legendary Jon Shannow from David Gemmell’s epic series. My character, Hawk Goodwin, channels that same brooding, gunslinging spirit, tearing through a dusty Old West town with vengeance and justice on his mind. If you love hard-hitting action, complex characters, and a story that doesn’t pull punches, dive in and let me know your thoughts! What worked for you? What would you tweak? Drop a comment—I’m all ears and eager to hear from fellow storytellers and readers!

The dust clung to everything in this cursed town, swirling in eddies around Hawk Goodwin’s boots as he stalked down the cracked street. His shadow stretched long and mean, the wide brim of his hat slashing shade over eyes dark as a storm cloud. Those eyes locked onto the kid standing defiant in the dirt—Frederick Hanstein, young and foolish, his hands twitching an inch from his twin revolvers. The air was thick with heat and the promise of blood, the townsfolk cowering behind shuttered windows, their silence louder than a gunshot.

“You should’ve stayed clear, boy,” Hawk growled, his voice rough as gravel, each step ringing with the faint jangle of his spurs. “Ain’t no glory in dyin’ today.”

Frederick’s eyes blazed, squinting against the noonday sun. “I ain’t scared of you, Hawk,” he spat, his voice cracking with youth and fury. “You’re a killer, and I’m here to put you down!” Fifteen paces separated them, the gap shrinking with every deliberate stride Hawk took.

Hawk’s lips curled into a cold, mocking sneer. “Lookin’ to be famous, kid? Wanna be the one they sing about in the saloons?” His voice rose, taunting. “Here’s the boy who killed Hawk Goodwin!” He chuckled, low and slow, the sound stoking Frederick’s rage.

“It ain’t about fame, you bastard!” Frederick shouted, his face flushing red. “You’re a plague, leavin’ bodies wherever you go! I’m endin’ it!”

Hawk stopped ten paces away, hands loose at his sides, fingers brushing his holster. “And what’s that make you if you kill me, huh? A hero?” His eyes glinted, sharp as a blade. “What’s your name, kid?”

“My name?” Frederick’s voice was pure venom. “Frederick Hanstein, and you’ll damn well remember it!”

Hawk’s head tilted, recognition flickering. “Hanstein… Jenny’s boy?” He scratched his stubbled jaw, casual but never breaking his stare. Frederick’s hand jerked toward his gun, but he froze as Hawk’s revolver was out in a blur, the barrel gleaming, steady as death. The kid hadn’t even seen him move.

“Go home,” Hawk said, his voice flat, spinning the gun back into its holster with a flick. “Today’s too fine a day to die.” He strode past Frederick, close enough for the kid to smell the leather and gunpowder clinging to him, and kept walking, the town parting like a scared herd.

Frederick spun, chest heaving, his voice tearing through the silence. “You’re gonna die by my hand, Hawk! Mark my words, you son of a bitch!” He shook his head, spitting into the dirt, and his eyes caught a woman on a bay horse, her silhouette stark against the sky. She’d been with Hawk, her face half-hidden under a hat, her gloved hands steady on the reins. As Frederick approached, she glanced down, her eyes cold as steel, then flicked back to Hawk’s retreating form, dismissing the kid like he was nothing.

The street was a graveyard, horses snorting at splintered posts, the squat huts silent, their windows dark. Hawk’s mind churned as he walked, Frederick’s words echoing like a distant shot. Another fame-hungry fool, just like the rest, cloaking their sins in righteous fury. Pathetic. He shrugged it off, his focus narrowing as he pushed through the saloon doors.

Inside was chaos—whiskey fumes, sweat, and cheap perfume choking the air. Whores laughed upstairs, their moans tangling with the snarls of drunks at gambling tables, cursing over lost coins. The noise crashed to a halt when they saw Hawk, the tall stranger in the doorway. Silence fell like a guillotine, a hundred eyes on him, some gripping beers, others inching toward cocked revolvers.

Hawk took two steps inside, spurs chiming. “Which one of you dirty, lowdown sons of bitches is Darryl Slade?” His voice boomed, rattling the rafters, silencing even the creak of bedsprings above.

A door upstairs slammed open. A man stumbled out, half-dressed, jacket loose, undergarments sagging, his face flushed with liquor and panic. He fumbled for his gun, firing wild. The bullet ricocheted off a lamp, sending it swinging. Hawk’s revolver was out in a heartbeat, the shot cracking like thunder. The bullet struck the man’s gun, sending it skittering across the floor. The man yelped, collapsing as Hawk climbed the stairs, each step deliberate.

“Open your goddamn mouth, Darryl,” Hawk snarled, looming over the cowering figure, his gun inches from the man’s sweat-slick face.

Darryl obeyed, gagging as Hawk shoved the barrel deep, nearly choking him. “Up, you bastard!” Hawk yanked him to his feet, dragging him downstairs, his eyes scanning the crowd. The saloon doors burst open, and Frederick stood there, gun drawn. “Killer!” he shouted. “Don’t even think about it, Hawk!”

Hawk growled, “Stupid boy, put that damn toy away.”

“I won’t!” Frederick roared. “I’m done with the death you drag everywhere!” His words were cut off as Hawk’s second gun fired, the bullet whistling past his face, close enough to burn. The crowd gasped, and Frederick’s gun clattered to the floor, his eyes wide with shock.

Hawk’s gaze locked on Darryl, the man trembling, his eyes screaming terror. This was no man—just a rabid dog, wanted for murder, rape, and plundering. Worth more alive, but that wasn’t the point. “You!” Hawk bellowed, ripping the gun from Darryl’s mouth, leaving him gasping and spitting. “I’m givin’ you a chance.” Darryl’s eyes flickered with hope, but Hawk’s burned with hellfire. “You’re gonna confess your sins to every soul here. But first, someone’s waitin’ for you.” His grin was demonic as he grabbed Darryl’s collar, spinning him toward the doors and marching him backward into the street, the gun now pressed to the back of his skull.

Outside, the woman on the horse waited, her blue eyes locked on Darryl. Wing. Her face was stone, but her hatred burned like lava. Four years ago, Darryl and his raiders had slaughtered her family—her husband, her daughter—then violated her until Hawk pulled her from that hell. Now, her fingers twitched toward the serrated knife at her thigh, vengeance pulsing in her veins.

Hawk shoved Darryl forward, the gun still trained on him. “Turn around, you gutless swine,” he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. Darryl hesitated, his body trembling, then slowly turned to face Hawk, his eyes wide with dread, searching for mercy that wasn’t there. Hawk’s stare was cold, unyielding, the revolver steady in his grip. “Not me,” Hawk growled, jerking his head toward Wing. “Her.”

Darryl turned again, his movements sluggish, as if his bones knew what was coming. His eyes crept up to meet Wing’s, her deep blue gaze piercing him like a blade. Shame gutted him as recognition hit—the woman he’d broken four years ago stood before him, no longer a mouse but a storm made flesh.

“You…” Darryl whispered, his head bowing, his voice barely a rasp. “I can’t… I don’t…”

“Save it, bandit,” Wing cut him off, her voice low, calm, but heavy with menace, like the rumble of a distant storm. She nudged her horse forward, pacing before the crowd spilling from the saloon. “This!” she shouted, pointing her revolver at Darryl. “This is who you called your sheriff?” She cracked the gun across his face, blood spraying as he crumpled. “Tell them what you did, Sheriff.”

“I… killed… her family,” Darryl mumbled, barely audible.

“Louder!” Wing snapped, striking him again. He cried out, sprawling in the dirt.

“I killed her family!” he shouted, voice cracking. The crowd murmured, uneasy.

“That ain’t all,” Wing said, her eyes cold as death. “What he did to me… you can guess. But that’s between us.” She wheeled her horse, pacing. “My name’s Wing, and this man’s mine for now. When I’m done, I’ll drag what’s left back for your justice.”

A few in the crowd muttered, and Wing’s gun snapped to a wiry man. “You got a problem?” she demanded.

“N-no, ma’am,” he stammered. “Just… we got no sheriff now, with this one gone rotten.”

“Then pick one,” Wing said. “We’ll be back in three days.” Hawk cut in, “Frederick here?”

Frederick pushed through, jaw tight. Hawk motioned him over, keeping one eye on Darryl. “I like you, kid,” Hawk whispered. “You’re good stock. Be sheriff.”

Frederick blinked, stunned. “My, how things twist ‘round here,” he said wryly. “This mean you’ll stop callin’ me boy?”

Hawk grinned. “Reckon so, Sheriff.”

Frederick ripped the star from Darryl’s vest, punching him hard. “You never deserved this town, devil.” He pinned the star to his chest, turning to Hawk. “Our talk ain’t done.”

“Three days, Sheriff,” Hawk said, nodding.

The crowd clapped, hesitant but growing. Wing’s face stayed stone. She tossed a rope to Hawk, who caught it, looping it around Darryl’s neck. Wing tied it to her saddle, and they rode out, dragging Darryl’s moaning body through miles of desert, his cries ignored.

At camp, Hawk built a fire while Wing hunted, returning with two rabbits, her knife dripping blood. She thrust the blade into the flames, the metal glowing red. Darryl, bound tight, watched her, fear twisting his guts. She was no mouse now, not like four years ago. His eyes flicked to the knife, then to Hawk, who studied him.

“You know,” Hawk said, leaning back to eye the stars, “you’d make a hell of a wife, Wing.”

She snorted, skinning a rabbit. “What, you want someone to darn your socks? That’s easy to find.”

“Nah,” Hawk chuckled. “You’re a real woman, Little Wing.”

A pot flew, smacking his head. “Call me that again, and you’re dead by dawn,” she snapped.

He laughed, rubbing his skull. “Fine, you’d be a terrible wife.”

Her lips twitched, but her smile died as she glared at Darryl. “Hawk,” she said, voice cold. “I’m talkin’ to Darryl now. Alone.” Her eyes darkened.

Hawk nodded, wandering to some boulders, pulling a worn letter to read by moonlight. He glanced back as Wing yanked Darryl’s undergarments down, the red-hot knife glowing in the dark. It moved, and Darryl’s scream tore through the night, raw and soul-shattering, louder than anything Hawk had heard.

Hawk didn’t flinch. Four years, Wing had honed this vengeance. Darryl thought she’d break like the others. Not Wing. She was a fighter, forged in fire. When Hawk saved her, she wasn’t Wing—just a broken bird. Now, she was a hawk, fierce and unyielding. Her real name? He wondered sometimes, but it didn’t matter. Darryl’s screams grew louder, cutting his thoughts.

Hawk grinned, muttering, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”