Paul and Flint

Paul lifted a dusty hand to block the midday sun as he scanned the nearby hillside. He had been kept waiting far too long. Flint should have been able to make it past the Oklahoma border by now. No doubt he had gotten himself into trouble. If Flint’s shooting skills didn’t border on the miraculous, he would have left an hour ago.

He caught a rustling sound behind him and twisted in his saddle. In a swift motion, he pulled out his revolver and aimed it at the nearest target. It just so happened that target was Flint.

“Yer slow, old timer,” the sharpshooter said with a smirk. He was aiming his own trusty rifle right at his partner’s head. Paul holstered his pistol.

“S’bout time you got here,” he said. “Where ya been?”

“S’not easy to sneak up b’hind ya in these hills,” Flint said. “Took an hour extra.” He sidled his horse next to Paul. “So, what’s the job?”

“S’important,” Paul said. “Matter’a national security.”


“Seriously,” Paul said quietly. “We been hired t’assassinate the president.”

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