Norton’s clothes were dusty and worn out. He was tired. He took his boots off and dipped his feet in the creek to cool off.
Old Sheriff Tillerson didn’t abide no hobos.
“Those boots look wore out,” he said.
“Yeah, but they’re magic boots.”
“Magic? Doin’ whut?”
“Protecting me from harm.”
“Shee-it! You took them boots from another hobo, didn’tcha?”
“Didn’t help him none, did they?”
Tillerson reached for the boots.
The boots kicked Tillerson clear into the creek.
“What in hayull?” shrieked Tillerson.
“I did get ’em from another man,” said Norton. “But I asked him nicely.”
Written for the Friday Fictioneers: https://rochellewisoff.com/2018/05/16/18-may-2018/