• The crowd of onlookers gasped, and one fair lady succumbed to a dizzy spell. The patchwork bonnet atop her head loosened to reveal a wave of flaxen hair, swaying as she fainted into her husband’s wide-open arms. The roses, such blooming, pink buds, on the apples of her cheeks shriveled up, leaving only a flushed complexion, sanded over. No one dared step closer, but their eyes were locked, unable to turn away. Not a soul stepped forward to aid the dying man.

    He stooped, hunchback and on his knees, and pressed his hand to the hole in his chest. A clean sweep, the bullet had been efficient, plunging in through one side, rupturing an artery, and bursting out the other. And the silver flash sped forth only brief seconds more before dropping in mid-air, as though the avian journey were cut short by an invisible forcefield. Only rigid circles and the flow of blood, like molten lava from a volcano during seismic disturbance, marked its rise and fall. It was life, a gulp of air, and then a quick death, lights out and curtain closed.

    Before the lights dimmed completely, the wounded man heard the rhythmic click of boots over dunes and stared up into the eyes of his killer. Visceral, tiny plumes lifted up from the smoking gun in his hand, and one gloved digit rested atop the trigger. The dying man’s own gun lay nearby his crumpled side, too far to reach and too heavy for weak muscles to hold. Straight into the loaded barrel, the dying man gazed, now flat on his back, gasping and writhing. In synchronicity, the crowd gasped with him.

    “Sorry, Sheriff,” the gunman said, “But this town just wasn’t big enough for the both of us.”