The Prize
Arthur Johnson was a cowboy who traveled across the country in rodeos and gunslinging events. He held the world record for the fastest draw—0.205 seconds. Arthur always wore his father’s cowboy hat, the same one given to him on his father’s deathbed. Over time, he’d made additions: a rattlesnake skin wrapped around the brim from a snake he shot outside his house, an eagle feather gifted by a Native American friend in Texas during a tournament where Arthur placed second, and his world record scorecard tucked neatly beneath the brim.
He wore rugged Levi jeans, stained with dirt, and a plain gray shirt torn at the shoulder—a mark left by a bull that nearly gored him. His leather boots still shone, and his rich dark brown hair flowed like a river of chocolate. Standing at 6’6”, his body bore the scars of countless rodeos and broken bones.
In his trailer, Arthur liked to relax with Marty Robbins or the rising star George Strait playing on the radio. The trailer was filled with trophies from various contests, mostly first and second place. He looked over to his half-made bed, where his dog Bella lay. A 16-year-old German Shepherd, Bella had once served alongside his father in Vietnam. Her fur, now gray, clung to her like the remains of a coral reef.
“Hey, Bella,” Arthur said in his deep Southern drawl. “How ya doin’?”
She tilted her head and licked his hand.
“I’m about to shoot. Wish me luck.”
Arthur stepped outside and mounted his horse, Dan. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out apple slices. “Here ya go, buddy,” he said, feeding Dan, who neighed in excitement. He softly whipped the reins and rode off toward the contest.
At the arena, the event holder held up the grand prize. “A .41 caliber Colt Thunderer from 1877,” he announced. “The same model Billy the Kid used until his death.”
Gasps filled the crowd. Arthur’s heart raced—he had to win that gun.
The contestants lined up. Three loud beeps sounded, followed by a high-pitched tone. BANG! Gunfire erupted. Arthur’s bullet struck the target: 0.204 seconds—a new world record.
The crowd exploded in cheers. Arthur threw his fists in the air and hollered with joy. On the podium, he shook the host’s hand as camera flashes blinded him. He took the Colt Thunderer, inspecting the 21 notches carved into the handle—each one representing a life Billy had taken.
That evening, back home, he showed the gun to Bella.
“Look, the gun Billy the Kid used!” he said excitedly. She tilted her head again.
The next morning, Arthur woke early and made a cheesy omelet. After petting Bella’s scruffy fur, he mounted Dan and rode to an open field. Loading a .210 round, he admired the old gun, untouched since 1881. He aimed and pulled the hammer back.
When he fired, the bullet flew straight—but then time slowed. The gun glowed bright, lifting Arthur into the air. Screaming, he held tight. The world tilted. He shot through time like a bullet through space.
Everything stopped.
He floated gently down. The sign above the saloon read: Founded 1855 – 1881.
