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Slaughter At Stringybark Creek

• EPILOGUE -

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

13th June, 2019.

All Rights Reserved.

Clanton sprawled, the old chair on which the kangaroo stat creaked as he moved slightly, his quivering paw gripping a fountain pen as he scrawled on the paper. He was old, old, tired and worn out - nearly eighty years had passed since the rise of the hero of Stringybark Creek - the Bushranger - Ironclad.

His eyesight nearly gone, he sat and put pen to paper, recalling his memories and his times with this enigmatic stallion - teaching him the moral code which gave Ironclad meaning and purpose, something Clanton was exceptionally proud of. Candlelight flickered in his hut, the candle almost burned down to a stub that flickered and threatened to drown in the puddle of wax.

At last, Clanton sighed, his frail paw unable to hold the pen anymore, before he blew out the candle with a wheeze, then a slender paw reached out and touched him, his head turning with a creak as he glanced at the filly who stood just beside and slightly behind him.

"I'm done - at last his tale is finished - " Clanton wheezed, as he was helped to his feet, then guided towards his bed.

"I have - " Clanton gasped, struggling for breath. "One last - wish..."

He hobbled to his bed, where the filly dragged out an old, dented trunk. He gestured and she opened it - revealing something wrapped in an black oilcloth. Carefully, she took it out and unwrapped it, revealing itself to be an old revolver.

"This..." Clanton wheezed again, then coughed, his ears slicking back as a tear slid down his left cheek. "Was his - he wanted your grandmother to have it...she refused, as it reminded her of him, of what they shared...now, it's yours..."

Clanton lay down on his bed, folding his withered paws on his belly, before he sighed with a sibilant gasp - his final breath on this earth, as the filly knelt beside him and wept...

END