Weird West Quick Draw Flash Fiction Contest 2025 Third Place Winner

The Cons Of Counting Eggs

by Matthew C. Brown

Two would-be robbers attempt to recoup their losses and then some.

The Barren Expanse was where failures went to die. The dust and dirt were quick to claim those found lacking. Julep and Grant were very much lacking. Lacking cash, strictly speaking. 

“You had the bag in your hand,” Grant said for the millionth time. He sat on the opposite side of the fire because the last time he’d mentioned the goddamn bag Julep had backhanded him in the balls. The chunk of night cacti they’d hacked off a stalk burned brightly, offering a meager warmth in the nighttime world of the desert. Arko Moon No. 29 shined its artificial violet light in the starless sky above.

“I’m not talking to you,” Julep replied.

Grant held his hands in front of him like he was gripping an invisible package. “You had the bag in your hand. And you just dropped it like a sack of raptor shit.”

“That kid shot at me. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not drop the bag for a start.”

She pointed at her head. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with a bullet hole in your hat.”

“If you hadn’t dropped the bag, you coulda paid to get that hole patched. Hell, you coulda bought a new hat!”

Julep chewed her tongue. Truth be told, she was pissed at herself, but Grant’s yapping didn’t help. She hadn’t expected to be shot at by a kid not even old enough to grow fuzz on his upper lip.

Grant dragged both hands on either side of his stubbled face. “Months of planning. Months.”

“It was two weeks!”

“Yeah, but I was thinking about it for months.”

You didn’t think near hard enough, she wanted to say. But she didn’t, because he’d likely fire back a retort that included the word “bag”. Instead, she crossed her arms and leaned back against a rock. “Look, when we get back to Rodim we can—”

“Shhh!” Grant held a finger to his lips.

Silence, except for the crackling cacti.

A grunt. Footsteps nearby.

“Move!” Grant hissed.

They bolted from the fire; there wasn’t enough time to put it out. They ran about twenty yards away and threw themselves down behind a low rock. Grant just about landed on top of her. They watched their fire in the distance, waiting to see who would show up.

A figure entered the sphere of light. Julep pulled out her Arko binoculars. Not a lawman by the look of him. Younger, clean shaven. A familiar scar on his cheek. One of his pant legs was in bloody tatters.

He set down a bulging brown bag.

“Oh hell,” she hissed. “That’s Ruben! He made it out.”

“What?” Grant snatched the binoculars out of her hand. He looked for a long time. then handed the binoculars to her. The violet moonlight glinted in his eyes. “Wait here.”

He was up and off before she could tell him to sit his ass back down. Through her binoculars she watched as he quietly jogged back to the fire. Ruben perked up, and Grant slowed his approach. He raised a friendly hand, but Ruben looked like a raptor ready to bolt. The two men stood in the glow of the fire. Julep wished she could hear what they were saying. 

Grant gestured to the bag. Ruben shook his head.

Everything went still as a slipnewt.

Both men reached for the belts. Grant got there first. He drew and shot Ruben through the head. The crack echoed across the Barren Expanse like a memory of thunder.

“Shit!” Julep hissed.

She jogged back to the fire. Grant toed Ruben’s body, as if the hole in his forehead wasn’t evidence enough he was dead.

“What the hell, Grant?! Why’d you shoot him?”

Grant crouched. “Because this scavenging son of a bitch had our money.”

He pointed to the black wording printed on the bag: PROPERTY OF THE FIRST BANK OF DRICK.

Julep frowned. “But…that’s bigger than the bag I had.”

“Maybe he got his own.” Grant dug inside the bag. “Wouldn’t be the first time he followed us and…what the hell?”

Grant dumped the bag’s contents. Four speckled ovals rolled out into the light.

“Raptor eggs?” Julep said.

Grant stared at the eggs, shifting his jaw the way he always did when he plotted. “Ruben was gonna sell ‘em.”

“You think?”

“Well, even if he wasn’t, they’re ours now. And we can sell ‘em.” Grant looked up at her with a devilish grin. “Looks like we hit pay day after all, eh?”

Julep stared at Ruben and the new hole in his head. She thought of the bullet hole in her hat.

Pay day. For two? Or for one?

If Grant had been willing to shoot Ruben dead, who was to say he wouldn’t do the same to her for a full payout?

Shoot him, she thought. No. That first shot had probably already drawn unwanted attention.

Grant rolled the eggs around, that grin plastered to his face. Slowly, Julep backed away from the fire. She was swallowed by the dark by the time Grant half-heartedly called her name. Once. Twice. Silence.

The light shrank to a speck behind her. Julep pulled her coat tight, plotting her next move as she wandered south.

There was movement to her right. Julep froze.

The silhouette of a massive raptor passed under the moonlight.

Just my luck, Julep thought. She swallowed a fat ball of spit.

The beast leaned down and sniffed the dusty desert floor. It snorted, swished its long, feathered tail, then simply passed her by.

Julep’s eyes followed it, not daring to move, amazed she was still in one piece. The lack of markings on the raptor’s underbelly denoted it as female. Maybe a mother.

And it was headed in the direction of the fire.

Julep finally relaxed, and she couldn’t help but grin. It was Grant’s turn to keep hold of the goddamn bag. And by the looks of things, he wouldn’t have it for very long.

About The Author

Matthew C. Brown is a science fiction/fantasy author. Born and raised in Princeton, New Jersey, he grew up absorbing and telling stories inspired by many films, books, and video games. Many days in the classroom were spent thinking about Star Wars instead of multiplication tables. He lives with his wife and daughter in Massachusetts.