Sunday nights were usually rather quiet in the cantina at the edge of town, but this Sunday night felt like the smell of wet cement and lightening in the distance. The sounds of the twelve horses thundering over the desert hills shook the glasses on the shelves and Jonna, the lone bartender, put a shawl over her shoulders as if to protect herself from the rain surely about to fall.
As the thunder surrounded the small cantina, the three men at the bar exchanged knowing looks, stood, and faced the doors. Then there was silence, beautiful, terrible silence, and for a moment as the doors swung open and the light from the setting sun fell on Jonna’s wet face, it seemed as though the clouds were parting. Then, like a flash of lightening the shots erupted in a clap of thunder that drowned her final scream.
