My Cardboard Balcony

Trigger by Belinda Roddie Her name was Trigger, and she sure was happy, blowing holes in cans from two miles away. You could see the smoke curling into 'told you so's,' and the cursive was flawless. The brim of her father's hat was wide and imposing, and it suited her and her two revolvers just fine - a broad hat complementing broad shoulders, broad hips, and an even broader sense of humor behind tobacco leaf-stained teeth. Keep in mind that her papa's name was Barrel, and his nose was just perfect to stare you down over, the nostrils substituting for bullet chambers, warm in the winter.

I sought out a lonely vein in the abandoned gold mine, one that had been barely tapped but potentially held enough wealth to tide over years upon years of future descendants. My companion waited by the mouth of the cavern, too afraid to venture with me yet still adamant that I bring enough back for him to share. I would do no such thing, not if he couldn't grab his own rope and follow me through the tunnels and passageways. As far as I was concerned, any discovered treasure was mine and mine alone.