The pistol grip felt smooth and cold under his fingers. His long coat stirred as a gust of wind rolled over them. He had six shots. Josiah had three. There were seven of them. He would have to be quick. Quick and smart. He looked Coon Junior in the eyes.
'Think your father'd be proud of you, Junior?' He asked.
'Ah think m-' Junior began.
The gunslinger drew. Junior fell first, his head bursting like an over-ripe melon. His next shot caught a second man in the chest, hurling him beyond the light from the fire. Josiah's rifle roared, sending a slug through the gut of a third.