The gunfighter's first shot caromed with a thin whine off the granite two feet to the right of the tin can. His second shot went off before he'd cleared leather and ripped a groove along his left boot heel.
"Ouch," cried Maurice "Lightning" Epstein, "The Fastest Gun in Wyoming," as the papers in Johnson County and all along the Union Pacific Railroad called him. He danced around a bit before he realized he hadn't really injured himself, then sat down with a grunt to examine the boot.
The heel came off in his hand.
He debated saving the well-worn lump of hard leather for a fix in town when he arrived in an hour, but decided against. He'd buy new boots with his first pay. Meanwhile, he'd make up a tale to explain--"This rattler, big around as your thigh, came leaping out of nowhere. I dodged quick and shot his head off just as he bit off my heel." That should do it. Maybe somebody'd give him some boots if he embellished the story enough.
Meanwhile, he'd try to avoid limping.
He tossed the heel into the sage that spotted the desert around the aspen grove where he'd camped. He'd made a quick meal before riding into town as it wouldn't do to arrive hungry. No, he had to appear indifferent to adversity. His immunity to the debilitating effects of hunger and other travails of his trade would be evident in his slow pace, steely gaze, and steady left hand, always close to the gleaming Colt .44 nestled ready in a well-oiled black holster.
Townsfolk would see the twenty notches on the Colt handle and know they'd done right in hiring him.
Lightning stood. He grimaced as pain stabbed the knuckles of his left hand, his shooting hand. It was getting worse.
He sighed as he kneaded the inflamed joints. He was still fast--the fastest, and no mistake--but the arthritis would erupt at the darndest times, spoiling his accuracy.
And his eyesight, fading.
"This might be my last gig, Thunder," he told his horse. "Reckon I'll end up working for the dadgum Pinkerton's in Denver, riding a desk or being a night watchman." The horse snorted in response and nodded its head sagely. "And you'll end up in a gluepot. No kind of life for either of us."
Lightning saddled up and rode toward town.
En route, he passed a recently extinguished campfire in a cottonwood copse near a spring. A wagon had been there. One woman, or a boy, judging by the small size of the tracks, and two horses, had left the site maybe an hour earlier, at sunup.
Lightning grunted. If the site was unoccupied come nightfall, he'd use it himself. It lay closer to town, a better shelter, better situated.
But no, he decided as he saw a stack of fresh firewood. Whoever set up here would be back. The camp had a less-than-temporary look. The same party had in fact, occupied it for at least a week, Lightning reckoned. He preferred to camp alone.
Lightning sighed and rode on.
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