THE GUNSLINGER
He adjusts the wide brimmed Stetson perched casually atop his head and step into the construction ravaged street. In the distance, a static backhoe sits motionless. He surveys the deserted street and cocks his head slightly to the side, straining to hear any sign of life.
There is nothing. Not even the trilling song of the birds he can see flittering from power line to tree and back again. That is never a good sign.
He shifts his weight slightly, his long trench coat flowing like mercury around him, and places his right hand on the cold comfort of the butt of the handgun that hangs heavily from his hip. He unfastens the clasp of the holster and takes a few steps forward along the dusty, dug up street.
It is too quiet.
He lets out a low whistle to break the tension. He is a confident man and he knows that they are here waiting for him. Even a fool could smell an ambush like this. He kicks at the dirt at his feet, watching the dust billow up around the toes of his dull black Doc Martens. He smiles.
"Shouldn't you be wearing cowboy boots?" his partner had asked.
"Cowboys are pussies," he had replied. He was kidding at the time, but his straight faced expression made his comment seem deadly serious.
He took another step along the street and slid the gun a little further out of the holster.
"I'm here," he called out. He made sure that it wasn't a shout, just a proclamation of intent. He knew they were here, and now they knew that he was too.
"Why don't you come out and we can sort this business out?"
That's when the first shot rang out, tinging off the gravel right next to his feet.
He drew his gun and prepared to finish off the bastards. The smile crept unbidden across his face.
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