The stars were all silent. So were the trees, and the wildlife that dwelled within them. The only audible noise that filled the forest air was the soft, steady breath of a young man. The young man’s was Argyle; he was nearly eighteen years old. He was fairly tall, with dark features, and a slender, yet lean, muscular frame. Wrapped around his shoulders was a thick, long coat made from bear skin that shielded him from the night’s harsh winds. In crux of Argyle’s left arm was a lever action long rifle. Argyle was crouched behind a bush, patiently waiting for an unsuspecting creature to walk into his crosshairs.

Argyle’s mind started to wander as he waited for dinner to present itself. His mind drifted back in time to a quaint memory from his early adolescence. It took place not far from where he was currently crouched now. It was a cool, sunny day in the forest and Argyle’s uncle, Orin was teaching him how to shoot a rifle. Orin was a sharpshooter in the war and spent several decades hunting big game in Africa. He was a decorated war hero and known as one of the best shots in the land. Neither Wild Bill Hickok nor Billy the Kid could hold a candle to Uncle Orin.
They spent all day in the forest; Argyle shot brass bullet after brass bullet, soaking in every word of advice that came out of his grandfather’s mouth. Argyle was a natural, a crack shot just like his grandfather. The image of Orin’s face beaming with pride for his grandson never faded from Argyle’s memory. Shooting wasn’t the only thing that Argyle’s grandfather taught him. Orin taught him how to track, skin and carve game of all sizes. He trained him in the arts of pugilism and fencing. Most of all Orin taught Argyle how to be a brave, courageous, honorable young man. Argyle’s mother died bringing him into the world and his father died in war. Orin had been Argyle’s guardian for as long as he could remember. He loved and respected him deeply.
Crunch! The distinct sound of a fallen branch cracking underneath the weight of a foot ripped Argyle out of his dream-like state of mind and right back into reality. With lightning fast reflexes Argyle c***ed the lever of his rifle and whipped it toward the direction of the sound. To Argyle’s bewilderment it was not a fawn that he saw. He saw a group of three men adorned in hooded black cloaks escorting a young woman. A red sash was wrapped around her mouth, preventing her from making any noise and her hands were bound with thick rope. Her torn disheveled blouse was stained with seemingly fresh blood. She was strikingly beautiful, with long raven hair and porcelain skin that the moon light beamed off of.
Argyle had to save the woman. He assessed the situation and noticed that two of the men were armed with single action revolvers holstered at their sides and the man pushing the girl along only had a dagger tucked into his belt. Argyle didn’t waste any time, he set his sights on of the armed man’s shoulders. He took his shot.
“Aah!,” the cloaked man let out a bloodcurdling scream as the bullet plunged into his shoulder. He dropped the floor howling in pain. The two other men hastily drew their weapons. Boom! Another shot rang through the woods. This time it hit the other armed man in hand he held his firearm. His grasp on the pearl hand grip of his six-shooter released as his knuckles gushed with blood and it dropped to the forest floor.  He let out a painful shriek as well.
Argyle strode out of his hiding spot, with the rifle’s smoking barrel trained on the dagger-wielding cloaked figure, the only one of the three still standing. The bound young woman was crouched down in fear. “Untie the young lady’s mouth, cut her free, then drop the blade, or I’ll shoot you. And I won’t wing you like I did your friends, it will be fatal I can assure,” Argyle sternly said.
“Boy you don’t know what the hell you are doing, she isn’t an ordinary girl. She’s a witch, were taking her to be burned at the stake,” the cloaked man replied.
“I’ve never believed in fairytales and I’m not going to now. Now do what I told you to do or tonight will be the last night among the living for all three of you!,” Argyle barked back at him.
The cloaked man hesitantly and cautiously, untied the sash around her mouth and cut the rope from her hands, then dropped the dagger.  “Get behind me Miss,” Argyle told her, she complied. When she was safely behind him he asked her, “ Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m alright just shaken up,” She answered, “Thank you very much from saving me from these vile, abhorrent men.”
“Don’t listen to her!,” the man said pleadingly, “She is evil, you have to believe me! We are men of the cloth, holy men, tasked with putting an end to this woman’s treachery!”
Argyle then realized that she had no wounds, the blood that soaked her clothing couldn’t have been hers. Argyle also noticed the crosses hanging around the men’s necks. A very grave feeling washed over Argyle. He pivoted on his front foot to turn towards the woman and set the rifle on her, but she snapped the rifle out of his hands before he could get the shot. She heaved the rifle and sent it sailing into the deep woods. A devilish smile spread across her face.
“Oh god,” Argyle fearfully said. A ball of dark purple energy conjured in her left hand, she shot it towards Argyle. The dark purple aura rammed into him with the force of a raging bull and ripped him off his feet and threw him backwards. He slammed against the trunk of an oak tree and hit the ground with a thud. Argyle could feel warm blood trickling down his face as his consciousness faded and his eyes closed.