short story

The Cowboy and the Witch (2025)

She danced, wildly, spinning in the harsh and powerful wind that swept its way over the plateau: the wind of a story, the air of a showdown between the endless sun-yellowed stalks of grass and the steel-grey-blue sky above. Rolling, black clouds curled up the sky, electric air hovering threateningly in the corners of the horizon.

The moment stood in time but for the flowers that quivered at the sound of hooves from the cowboy's stallion, tall and strong, like the cowboy himself. He had come for the Witch, that wild horse that twirled and sang like the devil over the town of Mausoleum. The devil’s in Mawz, they would drawl, preferring fewer syllables; it had been named such on account of all the bodies buried under the land, trodden over by the few travellers that dared approach these plains.

The task would be simple. He would return before the storm hit, his quarry dead or alive in tow, and he would be the praised hero who had finally rid them of their eternal nuisance.

A man could not be better suited atop his horse, riding with rhythm and control over his steed, man and beast acting as one. That wild thing they called the Witch watched them with a quickness of agitation in its eyes as they approached, a bolt of frenzied taunt as it stood to meet the eyes of the cowboy. While the stallion whinnied and turned his head in fear, the rider steeled himself to what needed to be done, and bid his horse onward.

The singing wind, curious, followed them closer to where the Witch's powerful hooves thumped the ground then rose into the air, kicking and screaming. Her destiny was to be captured, and she was going to be captured, come hell or high water. Other men had failed, but he was not one of them.

He was better.

The cowboy stilled, his stallion waiting fearfully, obediently, for the next order. A creature like her could be approached in a number of ways: if he were a gentler man, he might take control of the untamed and raw wild through seduction of its senses and its thoughts; one could entrance it in a floral halo of warmth before pulling her legs down and breaking them so she would taunt them no more.

The other approach, favoured by a man such as the cowboy, was to tire it out with a short and precise rope and fierce, overbearing power, a hand grasping and throwing with the pull of muscle taut as that deadly halo wrapped around her neck. She would struggle pointlessly, fiendishly, as she either submitted to him or struggled so much she broke her own spine trying to fight him.

The first crack came from his whip-like lasso. He had made his decision; it did not take much deliberation, for the soft way had never been his, not with animal, not with woman, not with himself. The wind picked up as her frenzied eyes met his imposing figure, her golden chestnut coat glowing holy in the falling sunlight. Hooves thumped in a rhythmic trance and the cowboy began the chase, rope whipping in a crest but each time narrowly, nimbly, dodged by his prey.

The second crack came from his skull. He swore, face red as they circled each other, chasing in close pursuit. The sky rumbled, and as if in a moment of possession the cowboy's stallion buckled and threw his rider to his grave. The cowboy only had a brief moment, a moment in which he saw so much, before he slammed into the dirt and the creature vanished into the oncoming storm.

In that brief moment he had a vision. A vision of a soft-spoken woman in a black gown, like a geist, haunting the plains with gentle footsteps. It seemed as if the wind went through her or propelled her lightly through the sea of flaxen grass, and she stared at him with the most beautiful smile, twirling and raising her hands to the sky.

He finally realised the deaths of those men had not only been physical, but something else, and that long-coveted trophy of the man who could capture the devil's dancer was…

The third and final crack came from the sky as the rain finally arrived. Lightning and the Witch laughed together at man's futile attempts to capture a devil, the hubris of believing he was not like the others, to subdue the eternal and intertwined forces of the woman and the storm. He joined the graveyard upon which she bounded and leapt, where grass grew from the skeletons of those old fellows who tried to capture her and failed. Nature and phantom joined in cacophonous laughter as the rain poured down, through and over those old bones.

The sun set cold and silent over the town of Mausoleum that evening, and each cold house dared not leave their lights on, for they could all hear the devil's cackling whinny echo over the wide, golden-dark plains.