The Gunfighter

Smoke lazed listlessly from His hip, tracing a trail from the faint cloud that rested in front of Him at waist level to His holster, and from His holster the still-smoking gun pothered its secret from mouth to ear. It was both infinite and instant, the whole movement taking less than a second while at the same time, within that second, being immeasurable from His point of view.

(The butcher would later swear that it was only (snap of a thumb and forefinger) “that” long, while the saloon owner would argue it was slightly faster than that, due to the butcher’s fingers being like that of the thick meat he butchered as well as his dislike of the butcher’s profession, which made it possible for the fine folks of Ridge Canyon to stay situated at their homes rather than traverse to the local saloon for their evening meal.)

He was someone of no regard — born of neither noble blood nor regal name, He was found on the doorsteps of a nunnery wrapped in a burlap sack, bleeding from its coarseness.
Sharp Eyes took in His surroundings. The rain of the day before had left the air humid. (The desert heat had already dried up the palpable moisture in the ground and on the buildings and the drinking water for the horses had to be filled up constantly. The desert sun was unforgiving, and many of the residents had tanned and sun-burnt faces due simply to walking to the barber from their homes. Oh yes, the desert was an unforgiving place.) Humidity might make Thunder (The name of His left Colt 45.) and Lightning (The name of His right Colt 45.) stick in their holsters. Might make the hammer slippery. Might make the hammer harder to pull back.
The Sharp Eyes took in the faces of the onlookers. Their fear. It excited Him. Made His blood drum His fingers with His heart’s beat. Negated any fear of His own.

(An imagined fear He had instilled in them. He was God. He alone controlled Thunder and Lightning, and both only struck the same place once. Accuracy had no need for two.)

His fingers curved endlessly to the ground. They ached for tension. They longed for cold, humid steel. Just seconds ago they had pulled back His overcoat to reveal Lightning. But course cloth is no replacement for moist steel (It was damp enough for a misfire. Better throw two.) and they still ached for the measured tension of the familiar. They knew exactly how far the trigger would go before the hammer went. They were intimate with the sting felt from the gunpowder as it sphered outwards from the chamber. A sting that left them sensitive and feeling from far away.
He stared at the man across from Him. he screamed obscenities. he screamed vengeance. he screamed his face red and his saliva gone.
Movement.
his hand, pivoting from the elbow, shot towards the oak handle of his gun. He followed suit. Only a fool makes the first move. He loved the chase. It bolstered His senses. His fingers drummed furious beats.
he was fast. he wasn’t as fast as Him though. Hands met handles at the same time. The look on his face was humorous. Shit-squinty eyes. Patchy beard. Pursed lips. He chuckled inwardly.
The Shot rang out. Eyes opened wide in surprise. His Sharp Eyes opened wide in surprise and pain as the bullet passed cleanly through his heart and continued on into the dessert outside of Ridge Canyon.
Smoke lazed listlessly from His hip, tracing a trail from the faint cloud that rested in front of Him at waist level to His holster, and from His holster the still-smoking gun pothered its secret from mouth to ear. It was both infinite and instant, the whole movement taking less than a second while at the same time, within that second, being immeasurable from His point of view.
But He had shot wide, His mistake bringing infinity into a measureable distance. And in His confidence He had holstered His gun, expecting to see him drop to the floor. His slug had gone wide and buried itself into the shoulder of him. he had been able to squeeze off a single shot before His bullet’s momentum spun him counterclockwise into the ground.
His heart no longer beat. He stood up straight and tall. Then He collapsed, the weight of His body no longer supported by His legs. (Though the town doctor said He had died before His body hit the ground.) His impact with the Earth created a cloud of dust that circled outwards from His body and carried up to the neighboring roofs before dissipating. As the dust rose He convulsed. (Many of the residents swore that this convulsion was the creation of a soul eager to leave a body that lived a long, hard life.) His back arching His chest towards the sky as His Sharp Eyes stared fruitlessly upwards, in permanent disbelief .

(The doctor rushed out to treat him. he shoved him away and walked over to His body. Looking down, he spit on His face as the dust settled, creating a paste within His still moist eyes.)