The telltale report of revolvers and rifles echoed through the whole town. The bullets were meant for me, but they seemed content to shoot the tavern wall instead. Frankly, the new holes would do well to air out the stench of decay, but I suspect the new holes in the patrons would offset it. 

The few regulars were dead, save for one poor girl who had the presence of mind to dive under the run-down piano in the corner. The owner survived the volley, but he didn't count, as I was currently stabbing him to death.

Normally I would save the stabbing for after I was done being shot at, but you gotta take your opportunities when they come. I found myself directly on top of him, having dove over the counter the second I heard the click of a hammer. I saw the look in his eyes, of hate and vitriol, and I knew it was him who led them here. So I stabbed him in the throat.

It's good work ethic to get simple problems out of the way first.

The shooting slowed down for a moment, as the bounty-hunters clearly didn't understand volley fire. I took that chance to crawl towards the back door, which was thankfully right by the counter. A shot whizzed past my head, but it sounded like wide-spread birdshot, so it didn't count. What kind of dumbass brings birdshot to a shootout?

I made eye contact with the tavern wench and saw her eyes glistening with tears as she covered her mouth. I raised a finger to my blood-covered lips as I gestured silence. They probably wouldn't shoot her, if my suspicions were correct. And it probably was, as this prediction fell under the category of hind-sight, which was my specialty.

The door was slightly ajar, so I crawled through it, right as most of them finished reloading, and resumed firing. I was slightly jealous, as I could tell that a good number of them had double-actions, and I still hadn't gotten my hand on one.

I've noticed, over the years, that my mind tends to wander in high-stress situations. Or maybe I agreed with what my gut was telling me. I could only do this so many times before someone got lucky, or I got somehow even more unlucky.

Right. No point in accepting my fate quite yet, and no reason not to drag a few fools with poor judgment down with me. I clamored to my feet and glanced out the dirty window. Two boys on the neighboring roof, watching the door. Footsteps around the front as more came to encircle the building. Window can't give me a clear angle to shoot, so have no choice but to risk it.

Going out a door that is clearly being watched by two people expecting someone to use it within the next few seconds is probably responsible for a good majority of in-town gun deaths. I drew Peacemaker from my second holster, slowly turned the knob, and literally dove through it.

Diving through a door is painful and disruptive, but it saved my life. I fired my first shot into the leftmost's neck before he could even think to shoot. The other fired while I thumbed the hammer, but he missed due to the aforementioned dive. I took him in the chest, then hit the ground as the first fell off the roof, and the other fell backward, a shocked expression on his face.

My bandolier dug into my chest. I was an incredible shot, but hitting two lethal hits in midair was definitely a highlight of my 'career', as it were. I didn't have time to celebrate, as the rest of the posse began to round the corner. The lead, some young kid, probably around 18 years old, looked almost surprised to see me. He turned and opened to mouth to yell, presumably something like 'Over here!' but never got the chance, as my third shot took him through the side of the head.

My body rose as his hit the ground, and I was already sprinting towards a neighboring alleyway when the rest of them got a bead on me. I didn't bother firing back, as I couldn't sprint and aim at the same time, and I didn't have enough bullets to bother with suppressing fire.

 I almost made it to the alleyway unharmed.

A bullet took me in my back, and, from the feeling of it, bounced off a rib and straight out the side.

The adrenaline dumbed my response to it, if not my pain. Funny how that worked, sometimes you could feel it like a hot knife, others you didn't even notice till the shooting was done. I noticed this time.

I made it into the alleyway mostly intact, scanned my surroundings, and quickly began to replace the three spent bullets. The Peacemaker is the pet term for a Colt Single Action Army, which was a side loader. They can take a bit to reload, but most gunfights either last moments or involved solid cover to hide behind, so it didn't usually matter.

I had just finished reloading when a man with a shotgun turned the corner into the alleyway. He didn't get to raise it before getting shot in the chest, and I yanked it out of his dying hands as I flew past him. It was a sawed-off double barrel, which was perfect for my usage. I stashed it in my empty shoulder-holster, under my coat.

I slowed down before I exited the alleyway, and glanced around both roads. The road out was blocked by a carriage and a lot of men with various expressions, some fear, expectation, pity, and more. It was mostly greed, though. Some looked hardened, bandoliers, and well-worn belts. Others look like they had picked up their father's shotgun on their way out the door. 

I reckon that might just be the case.

The streets were empty, besides the posse of gunmen. Some horses were tied up, some carriages were parked, and some eyes peered fearfully or curiously out of several windows. The streets were the yellow of the desert, stained a multitude of other colors by extended human visitation.

Stolen story; please report.

I was doing it again. My mind wanders, taking in details and thoughts that aren't all that relevant. I'd say it wasn't useful for survival, but my observations have saved my life, time and time again.

I suspected that wouldn't be the case this time. It was less observation, and more delaying the inevitable. I had two options. Go further into town, or try to break through the blockade. Considering I wasn't toting a Gatling gun, I only had one real option, so I went back through the alleyway and made a break for it. 

I passed a single street before I ran into a patrol.

Unfortunately, I was halfway between streets when they came around the corner. I was looking in the wrong direction, but so were they, so we were both pretty damn surprised when we made eye contact. There were five of them and nobody had their weapons ready. Perhaps they didn't think I would head deeper into town.

We all froze.

 I could smell the scent of debauchery, of horse shit, and of gunpowder. I could see the emotions in their eyes, largely a collective realization that there was no way they could get me before I got at least one of them. I could hear yelling and screaming, and even the occasional gunshot, presumably at some poor bastard who looked too much like me.

The moment passed. I shot first.

My first shot took the lead man, hat flying off as it hit him right in the skull. I thumbed my colt as I lowered it, and took the second man in the chest. The revolver was by my hip now, as I used my pointer and middle finger to fan the hammer, sending the third and fourth shots into their respective guts. The fifth got a shot off, and so did i. 

Neither of us missed.

He took my dominant arm, blowing straight through the elbow. I took him through the crotch, severing an artery. We both screamed.

I would love to say that my scream was more of a bestial roar of pain, and his was a girly screech, but, unfortunately, it was reversed. Perhaps it was less the pain, and more the realization that, without my shooting arm, the deal was done. I was going to die here.

My colt fell out of my hand, and I dove to grab it with my left. The nameless man who took my arm looked enraged, and raised his rifle with shaky hands, presumably to get one last laugh. I raised my gun to finish him off and pulled the trigger. I heard the dreaded click. Ah. I forgot about the guy I shot in the alleyway. Whoops.

It was an awkward angle to hold a rifle, and he was shaking like a leaf, so of course, he didn't hit his intended target, which was my chest, and hit my kneecap instead. I fell to the ground. Due to his awkward position on the rifle, the recoil jerked it out of his hands, and hit him in the head, knocking him out cold. 

Which was actually pretty damn funny, so I laughed. It was less of a laugh and more of a choked wail, but I digress.

I could hear the rest coming. Smoke filled the air from the seven shots fired. It felt familiar and comfortable and reminded me that I still had some smokes of my own left. I figured now would be a good time to use em'.

I holstered my empty revolver. My secondary holster rests on the front of the belt as opposed to the hip and is angled for a right-hand draw, so it took some wrangling to get it in there with my left hand. I managed. I didn't want it all dirty for the lucky bastard who looted it off my corpse. I hoped they appreciated the engravings. Those were expensive.

I could hear them approaching, but I wasn't too worried about them shooting. I was clearly not a threat, and they get more of a reward alive.  Have to have their show, after all. Executing famous outlaws is a frontier classic.

Shouts of 'Hey! He's over here!' and 'Do we shoot him?!' and whatnot drowned together as the mass of bounty-hunters approached. Well, I say that, but it seems that this is less of a bounty-hunt and more of a lynching, because most of these people are clearly locals.

I reached for my pack of smokes, only to find it soaked in blood. Ah. Maybe I shouldn't have stabbed the tavernkeeper. Probably wasn't worth it.

I heard footsteps approaching, a single pair standing out from the others, expensive stirrups making their telltale jingle as the owner of them sauntered towards me. I had a sneaking suspicion I knew who it was, and said suspicion was quickly confirmed.

Flint Jones. A good friend of mine taught me the word 'Nemesis', and I took quite a shine to it. Described our relationship pretty damn well, despite him being 50, 20 years my senior. He was wearing fancy, colorful clothes. He stood out like a city girl in a barn, and he knew it. He thrived on it if his constant smirk was any indicator. 

So much for being taken alive. 

"Need a smoke?" asked Flint.

"'Preciate it, though I'm afraid I'm too poor for your brands."

His smirk grew wider. "I'm afraid you might just be right."

He looped his fingers through his belt. "Here you are, lying in the dirt at my feet. I seem to remember informing you that this specific series of events would come to pass. Remember that?"

"Yup," I confirmed. I remembered it vividly.

"Great. It took quite a lot more time and effort than I anticipated, but, some things are inevitable."

'Yup," I confirmed. He was right. 

"You know, when I pictured this moment, I imagined me gloating over you as you looked in shock in despair, defeated after a prolonged gun battle," he explained, voice...disappointed. He raised his hands theatrically. "One for the history books!"

I coughed. "I just killed 10 people in less than five minutes, what the hell do you want from me?"

He laughed. "A legend! Legends don't get killed by random fools! They get killed by bigger legends!"

"Don't stereotype me."

He sighed. "That's a pretty big word, for you. Good lord, If only you were more like your father."

"Couldn't be less like him if I tried."

He scoffed. "Oh, you did try. You spent your entire life trying. Why? He was one of the finest Rangers around, before dying in a glorious gunfight. Why don't you want to be like him?"

"I'm pretty sure it was a tavern brawl."

He ignored me, and took to his knees, looking me in the eyes. "You spit on his legacy, yet carry his old gun. You do him no justice, boy."

I coughed up blood. Guess the shot to the back wasn't so light after all. It didn't matter. "Are you going to yammer or shoot me?"

"I'm going to do both, you pathetic fool."

He stood back up suddenly, looking genuinely angry. He drew his gun as the crowd watched the drama with bated breath. A good story to tell, a sheriff settling an old grudge on a formerly infamous outlaw. I wonder if it will be worth remembering.

He leveled it at me, look on his face much like one would have when putting down a lame horse that belonged to someone else. 

Pity.

"You could have been more," he stated with finality. It was true. As much as I hated the man, he was the one with the people, wearing clean clothes with a clean conscience, where I was covered in muck and blood, bleeding out in some nameless town in the ass-end of texas.

I had no family or anything I cared about, so I thought of my guns. I hope whoever takes my Colt appreciates how many lives were reaped with it. I hope Flint takes my father's gun, as he is the only one left who would appreciate the significance, as foolish as it is.

I looked Flint in the eyes.

"It's about ti-"

He didn't even have the decency to let me finish my sentence.