He arrived in the middle of the night.

Two candles burning in the back window. That was the agreed upon signal. When he found the house he was looking for, he knocked softly on the door.

A woman answered. A redhead, pretty for her age. Her eyes widened, and she took a step back.

"You're him? Mr. Frost?" she asked.

"Just Frost," he said.

"You're so tall," she said, and forced a nervous laugh.

He grunted. He was tall.

"Payment," he said.

"Yes, of course." She pointed to a box on a table.

Frost opened the box.

"It's all there," she said.

"I'm sure it is," he said, but he counted everything.

When he was finished, he asked a question.

"Where will they be?"

"They'll come tomorrow. Usually mid-morning. Straight down the little street," she said, and pointed toward her front door.

"Good," he said.

There were two chairs at the table. Frost pulled one out, and sat down.

The woman hovered over him for a moment.

"What will happen?" she asked.

The question was always asked, in one form or another.

"Our agreement specifies that they will not bother you anymore. They will not bother you anymore," he said.

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"Will you kill them?" she asked.

"If they make it necessary," Frost said.

She nodded, and said nothing more.

There was a bottle of whiskey on the table. Frost picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed. It smelled surprisingly fine.

"May I?" he asked.

She nodded, and brought him a glass. Frost poured a good sized gulp.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said.

Frost took a drink. He closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. It was very nice whiskey. Frost liked nice things. They were so hard to find in this world.

When he opened his eyes, she was gone. He could hear her moving in the bedroom.

Frost sat in the chair, sipped his whiskey, and waited for morning.

When the first hint of sunrise glowed in the window, Frost stood up, and opened his bag.

Frost was very tall and very thin. The boots he pulled out of the bag had lifts that put him close to seven feet. Next, he unfolded his long, black coat, and put it on. It hung off his thin frame, making him appear larger than he was. A bullet near his chest had a good chance of passing harmlessly through fabric.

Years ago, he had found a pair of glasses, the lenses pale blue. He put these on to hide his eyes.

Finally, he drew his hat from the bag, and placed it on his head.

Because gunslingers wore hats.

With his reputation, and his spectral appearance, most fights were all but decided before they even began. Today, he thought, would be one of those.

That was good, he supposed. As a hired iron, his job was to win.

But in his secret heart, he longed for someone who would challenge him.

He left the house, and stood in the street. He waited in the sun for two hours. It was a small town. There were few people outside. Those there were gave him a wide berth.

Frost heard the motorcycles before he saw them. Ancient bikes, with engines that popped and spit.

The riders were young, cocky. Uninteresting.

There was a spray of dust and rocks as they came to a stop. The one on the left spoke first.

"Everybody out. Everybody eager. Just because we're late doesn't mean that prices dropped. The sun is high and there's fun to be had. For us, not you, but you knew that already. Wait, who is this guy?"

The one in the middle spoke next.

"Is that Frost?" he asked. He tried to keep his voice from cracking. He was unsuccessful.

"Nah, Frost is a myth. This guy's just a corpse," said the mouthy leader, reaching for his weapon.

Frost drew and fired. The bullet passed through the young man's left eye. He hadn't even pulled his gun free.

The middle rider held a gun that wouldn't shoot straight in a shaking hand. Frost gave him a moment to decide what he wanted to do. He didn't pull the trigger, but he didn't put it down. Since he did not decide, Frost decided for him.

There was a crack, and the boy jerked backwards off the bike. Blood poured from this mouth.

The third rider had not spoken or moved. He looked to be the youngest of the three. Frost took aim.

"I'd rather save the bullet," he said.

The rider nodded, turned the bike, and drove away. Frost heard a cheer behind him.

Frost approached the bodies. He emptied the chambers of their guns, and put the bullets in his pocket. There was a small knife. A watch that still worked. A meager haul.

He stood up.

The redhead was standing nearby. He kicked the pistols towards her.

"You should barter those. And the bikes," he said.

"You don't want them?" she asked.

His eyes flicked down to the guns. He uttered a dismissive grunt.

"You saved us," she said.

Frost said nothing.

"We couldn't live… like that…. anymore," she said.

"You won't have to," he said.

"Yes. Yes. I know. It's wonderful. You should stay. We could celebrate," she said.

"I will bury the dead, and then I will leave," he said.

"You don't have to—" she said.

"Yes I do," he said.

A shovel was produced. A small graveyard indicated. She stayed him with while he worked, kept offering to help, kept trying to talk. He wondered if she was trying to convey interest in him.

"I've just never seen anyone shoot like that. Hardly anyone even has a gun anymore, at least one that's any good, let alone enough bull—" she was saying.

The holes were nearly filled. Close enough that he could stop without breaking the rules. Frost dropped the shovel. Sharply enough that she stopped talking. He took off his glasses, and looked at her.

"If they had paid me instead of you, you would be in the ground. It's important that you understand that," he said.

Her eyes widened, but she didn't step back.

"Ok," she said. A whisper.

A moment passed.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said. "For the whiskey."

He walked away, the afternoon sun still high. He thought he heard her say goodbye.