Thanks guys!

I'd like to try to pass off the jarring shifts as style, but I'm not creative enough for that.

As for the ending, I was running out of time when I wrote the first draft, and the next class we had to add more content without adding to the end, as a challenge. I haven't bothered to change it from then. Maybe at the end I'll collect them and revise them or something.

The next one, from a week ago:
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Blue steel glinted in the harsh desert sunlight. Leftenant Josiah Garfield fingered the stock of the weapon carefully, tightening his grip. Sweat trickled into his left eye. He blinked. The six-chambered implement of death seemed to nose the air, sniffing for prey. The objects of its attention, a hobbled old clerk and a young boy cowered against the stagecoach.

“We don’t want any trouble, sir,” the old man managed.

“That’s the attitude I like to hear.” He fell silent, as if expecting something. A carrion bird on a nearby cactus raised its head lazily, observing the commotion with small interest. Insects buzzed in the distance, and time seemed to stretch unevenly.

“Well? Get on with it! You should know the drill!”

The Weber gestured towards the clerk, who gulped and began to climb into the stagecoach. The boy glared from under his long black hair. He couldn’t be older than sixteen. About when I went out into the world, thought the outlaw.

“Better move real slow like, or somebody’s gonna get hurt. And it ain’t gonna be me,” growled Garfield. He looked down at his boots, then languidly kicked a small stone. It skidded for a few feet and stopped.

What happened in the next half-second would have been a blur to anyone watching. The boy reached for a gun on his belt, drawing it remarkably quickly and aiming for the bandit’s heart. But a half-second was too long. In the corner of his eye, Garfield saw the threat. The Weber fired, the loud blast putting several buzzards to flight.

The gun the boy had flew into the air. He cried out, startled by the sudden stinging in his hand. He massaged his right hand in his left, and a small tear trickled down his cheek. Garfield laughed, short and gruff.

“Thought you could pull a fast one on me, boy? Well, you can’t. I’m too fast. Next one is going to get you instead. Now hurry it up!”

Garfield swore silently. He must be getting old – he had aimed for the kid’s head. Oh well. One less drop of blood on my hands. Not that it made much difference.

Shortly – though it seemed ages to the outlaw – the clerk worked the heavy chest out of the stagecoach and onto the dry ground. Somewhere, some desert denizen made a noise like the snapping of a stick. Maybe it was a bird; Garfield jumped – then hoped his captives didn’t see it.

Exhaling deliberately, he motioned towards his prize.

“Open it up! I haven’t got all day.”

The clerk reached into his coat, and once again the Weber moved suddenly, pointing at the old man, who took his hand out into plain view.

“Just getting the keys.”

Garfield grunted, and the old man went for the keys again. He pulled them out slowly then started to unlock the weathered chest. One of the horses whinnied, breaking their silence since the encounter first began. It pawed the ground, as if it wanted to finish the journey to Libertad that was so rudely interrupted.

The lock on the chest clicked, the thick iron bolt falling into the sand. The old man lifted the lid gingerly and stepped back.

“Took you long enough. Now get back on the stagecoach and get lost!”

The two innocents scrambled back onboard the ship of the desert. With a crack of the whip, the horses accelerated. As the stagecoach rode off, the boy looked back. All he saw in the bright sunlight was one bad man walk slowly towards the chest.

Garfield knelt in front of his prize, like a priest before God’s altar. The gold would keep him fed, armed, and riding for another few weeks. But that was not Josiah’s main concern.

The violin was beautiful. It must have taken an expert craftsman many months to make such an instrument. Josiah would know. His father had taught him an appreciation of the finer things, including music. In this, he was a rarity among the robber Barons of el Rio Lobo.

Carefully Josiah lifted the instrument out of the chest, like a mother picking up a delicate infant. And Lady Luck smiled on him further! With the violin was the bow required to play it!

The bandit smiled and lifted the violin up to his chin. His long, yellow mustache brushed against the smooth, dark wood. And he began to play.

Three sharp raps on the wooden cell door broke the melody. “You hungry, amigo?”

Josiah was not hungry. He wasn’t sure he was anything anymore. His eyes opened slightly, and he muttered a vague curse, at the cell, the jailor, the world, himself. Absent-mindedly, the jailor – Dominic? – answered, “Si, si...” Perhaps he overhead Josiah, or perhaps he was just finishing a conversation with himself.

The door opened up, and the portly body of the jailor blocked the entrance. Whistling softly, he placed a bowl of cold yellow rice onto the floor. Turning to the captive, he grinned, the same smile Josiah had seen for a long time.

“Enjoy!”

With that, the door closed. Three years ago, the opening of the door would have inspired a rush of adrenaline-fed thoughts of escape. Now the prisoner only picked at the rust on a link of iron chain that bound him loosely to the wall.

And then, from a different corner in the little prison in squalid San Pedro, the music began again. The bittersweet melody started slowly, softly, and then rose, filling the cell. A small tear welled up in the bandit’s eye. He blinked, and thought of home.

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I didn't like how the indents looked, so I went for spaces. If anyone wants a copy without the spaces, PM me and I can email it to you or something.

Please, more comments!