”That was a hellova shot,” Ned thought to himself, the blood now dripping from his brow. His mouth had never felt so dry. His head felt like it weighed a ton, but he manage to crane his head skyward. It was darker than he remembered. How much time had passed? A minute? Ten?

Ned scrambled to his feet, his knees made of jelly. He had to find cover, but being at the short end of a box canyon, his options were limited. The shooter had to be after the bounty. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to collect. Ned tried to replay the scene in his mind. The shooter had only been a spec on the horizon when Ned spotted him.

His horse, Jack, was fast. He had always made his steeds were at least somewhat engineered for speed and endurance— but that was a long time ago. A different life. Back when numbers, theories, charts and probabilities had dominated his every waking moment. Here and now, his only concern was what was right there in front of him. In this new world, Ned had to take what he could; and thankfully Jack, or whatever his unfortunate owner had called him, was left unattended on his way out of Dodge. What was it, a year ago? Two? Nearly forgotten. Ned had moved on to settle his own little home away from it all. No one around to chase him. No one to bother him. Just him and that infinite horizon.

Ned was on his afternoon hunt when it happened. The bullet arrived an imperceptible moment after the sound of the shot washed over him. He wasn’t hit. No. The bullet had cut right through the reigns as Jack made a hard turn. Ned went flying and his ride took off without him. Some brush helped cushion his fall, but something smacked his head resulting in his bloodied brow and pounding headache.

Ned’s gun-! His right hand instinctively shot to his hip looking for his bolt-shooter. The holster was empty and Ned felt his stomach drop. His eyes hunted though the nearby dirt and brush, bogged down by double vision. The pounding in his head worsened as his vision cleared.

Then Ned heard the nicker of a horse. Even through the pounding in his head and his raspy breath, he heard it. “Jack came back,” he thought for a heartbeat. His horse would mean there was at least a chance of escape. He spun as fast as his aching body would let him.

It wasn’t Jack. Far from it.

The shooter loomed against the horizon like a silhouette painted against the sky— a revolver cradled in his lap. Two red lenses broke through the shadow of the face. It was as though nothing could escape their gaze.

Ned wanted to run, he wanted to hide, his knees instead decided to send him face down back in the dirt.

He groaned and gritted his teeth, grinding grains of sand against bone. Ned was ready to give up, is whole body told him to stay down. Still, his eyes searched for an escape. By some quirk of fate, there it was, his bolt-shooter. It was just sitting there amongst some weeds. In another life he would have noticed the gun looked neatly placed, almost in an artificial way; but in this life, he was blind. It was so close— less than two meters away. “I can make it,” he thought, “I can get the drop on him. He won’t see it coming.” His head didn’t seem to hurt as much anymore. He pulled himself up to his hands and knees ready to lunge for his gun.

The shooter’s gentle voice flowed over him, carried by the wind, stopping him dead. “Don’t reach for that iron— you’re worth more alive.” The words were peaceful sounding, gentle even, but Ned knew better. He had two prices on his head for some time now; now he would finally find out which it would be.