Bull skull gunman on forearm
Blackwork · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A figure in a dark suit, with a horned bull skull in place of a head, extends one arm to aim a revolver to the right. The solid black suit contrasts with stippled dotwork shading on the skull and fine linework on the gun. The design sits in the centre of a pale forearm against a dark background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mind the lamp, Tom, you'll have the cloth alight. Right. The undertaker in Calder Flats swore on his mother's grave that the man who stepped off the Sunday train had no head at all, only a hat, a black coat and a voice like a cellar door. That was the first lie. The head was there, a bull's, bleached by some desert wind, horns curled up like the handles of a good pair of scissors, sitting on his collar as neat as a bishop's mitre.
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He walked to the Cattleman's Rest with his revolver held out straight, the way a clerk points at an overdue ledger. Gil Harrow had cheated him over a herd near the Pecos ten years back, and Gil had been drinking ever since, sure he'd outlived the reckoning. Nobody had told the bull. The room went quiet except for one fly circling the lamp. Gil reached for his glass, and the stranger fired once into the wall above his head. Plaster came down like flour from a split sack.
Gil wept into his rye. The stranger lowered the gun and said he hadn't come for the man, only for the money, and that he could wait until morning to be paid. So they sat together at the bar till the window went grey, the horns casting long shadows across the sawdust, and neither spoke again.
At sunrise the town found the saloon door hanging open and the street empty. On the boardwalk lay one silver dollar, face up, and beside it a single stripped bone, a horn tip, with GH scratched into the tip in a careful hand. Gil was on the morning train before anyone thought to ask where the stranger had gone.
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