“There’s legend ’round these parts,” the bartender began his story.
From across the room, Ranger’s attention was caught. “Any story that starts like that has to be solid,” he thought, leaving his friends at their table and walking to the bar.
“There’s a tale as old this very mountain. A tale of a horse that no human could tame. A horse that would sooner spit in your face than give you a ride. Any who touched it found an early demise. Any who saw it were left rattled and afraid. The demon horse of the west. Locals named it to simply have some power over it. They call it Diablo Caballo, mostly because they don’t know too many words in Spanish, but also to let people know not to mess with it. I saw it once myself and spent a week with my doors locked. I couldn’t get out of this bar if I tried,” the bartender spoke through real fear as a crowd gathered around him to hear the tale.
Ranger was awestruck. He was merely passing through this tiny town with friends. He never thought there would be an evil ghost horse to round out his evening. He had to know more.
“Barkeep,” Ranger, obviously from out of town, asked, “how big is this devil horse?”
“Slightly larger than average. There’s really a low standard deviation in mustang size. You seen one, you seen ’em all in some sense. The real terror in this one is the eyes. It looks into the soul of a man and says, ‘nah. you ain’t nothing.’ It cuts deep.” The bartender explained.
“That sounds truly menacing,” Ranger said, “can I have one more of whatever lager is on tap, please?”
“Coming up, kid.”
Thanks for reading!