In my writing course, we were tasked with writing a scene. it was to be exactly 500 words in length, and during the scene, the reader was to become aware of a truth without it being said.

Here was my submission:

The Man in Black sauntered into the bank, right past the Pinkerton’s detective, sitting just inside the door. The detective stood up, slowly drawing his six-shooter. There was no way that thief would rob this bank twice.

The outlaw just stood there, staring at the clerks cowering behind counters, as if his mere presence was an announcement.

The silence dragged on.

Finally, The Man in Black bellowed, “Well?”

The newly-minted Bank Manager approached cautiously. He’d never met an outlaw before.

If this was the famous gunman — the suave, debonair brigand wanted in four states for larceny and two more for violating young ladies’ honour — he certainly looked nothing like his Most Wanted bulletin.

He was shorter than expected. His clothes were too big, hitched by a makeshift rope suspender. His gun was slung loosely on his hip. His spurs didn’t jingle jangle jingle; They were bent and beat up. In fact, his boots were brown.

He’d lost weight. His face was sunburnt. His hands were gnarly, no sign of his famous rings. That scraggly beard was not fit for kissing women.

No wonder he was so hard to find.

However, that was his famous black hat, red beaded brim, black feather slicked back, sitting a bit low, touching his ears. The iconic black vest…did it have holes? The signature black denim trousers with red piping, held up by that rope, were torn, almost worn through at the knees, cuffs rolled up and dusty.

“Are you The Man in Black?” The Manager asked, unsure.

“I am now. An’ I got me an I.O.U.” The outlaw pulled a crumpled telegram out of his vest pocket. He straightened it out, showed the Manager. He pointed at each word, speaking slowly. “Wichita. Central. Bank. That’s this here place.” He pointed at other words. “Ten. Thousand. Dollars. I came for my money.”

The Manager repeatedly tapped a different word. “Reward,” He said.

“What’s that, French? What’s it mean?”

“It means you just gave us ten thousand dollars.” A discrete nod, and the detective disarmed the outlaw.

They tied up The Man in Black and put him in an office where they could watch over him until the Sheriff could collect him.

“But for the clothes, this don’t really look like him.” The Pinkerton’s detective looked up from the bulletin. “You sure he’s The Man in Black?”

“You heard him, he is now.”