The Gunslinger already knows how it's going to turn out. Everybody does, maybe even the kid who just swaggered in, shine still on the Colt hanging from his hip. He finishes his drink as the kid stirs up a ruckus, speaking too loud in a kind of accent where the drawl comes out of the wrong side of his mouth. The kid's from a farm, but not here. Far from home, wearing his Sunday best, even if the shirt's threadbare. Seeking his fortune—that was the way it was for most of them. Every now and again there'd be something different: maybe a relative looking for revenge, or a common thug who didn't know what he was dealing with. Occasionally, it was an ex-army type who'd lived through hell in some godforsaken desert and had never quite managed to come all the way back. But they’re usually just like this one. The kid’s braggadocio isn't getting any takers, so he finally works up the nerve to announce his intentions. He's here for the Gunslinger. He's heard he's in town. The Gunslinger feels all eyes turn to him, and the kid may be dumb, but he's not blind. The kid's about to start more trouble, find the excuse he needs to make the challenge. "Noon," the Gunslinger says, his voice cutting through the noise of the saloon. "Outside." The kid jaws some more and heads out. The Gunslinger signals for one last whiskey. Everyone knows how this is going to turn out. So the Gunslinger tries to convince himself that this time it'll be different. He would have skipped the drink when he was younger. But age had already done more than the whiskey ever had. These days, it just soothed the shakes a little. And maybe the kid was a good shot. He didn't seem too different than the Gunslinger had been, once. Lord knows it wasn't as if shooting a gun needed a man to be bright. When the Gunslinger had started, he shot straight. That's how he had been taught, to aim for the heart, the thrill of danger pounding in his chest each and every time. After a while, he started shaking things up, shooting the gun out of their hand, one time knocking the hat off a man without touching a hair on his head. He’d put on a show, find some fun in it. That was when he made the name for himself, which long ago supplanted any real one. And then, they kept coming. He lost count of how many men he laid low over the years. He rarely feels the danger any more. He doesn't find any joy in the work. He’d started shooting straight again, in the hopes that when word got around, they'd stop coming. It hadn't worked. If anything, it had only gotten worse. One day, the Gunslinger figures, he'll just be a hair too slow and that will be the end of it. Someone else will take his place. Or maybe the world will just move on without him. The frontier he’d known as a kid is already disappearing. The West is old, too, and eventually the railroad bullets that tear through scrubland and mountain and prairie will hit something invisible but vital and that will be the end. But for now, the Gunslinger knows how it's going to turn out. He finishes the whiskey. Tomorrow they’ll ask him to leave town. This is the third one this week. He’s just so tired, somewhere deep in his bones, where the feelings have dulled into an ache that not even the liquor can hide. He wonders what it feels like to be dead. Would that’d be so different after all? The kid is waiting outside when the Gunslinger walks out. He hasn't run away—they rarely do. Instead, he's quiet now. The swagger’s gone or buried. He's more ready than the Gunslinger had first thought. They don't exchange words as they face down one another. It's not necessary any more. Everything in town comes to a stop, faces peeking out of buildings, behind stagecoaches. The only sound is the wind. The kid makes his move. It's obvious that he's a moment too rushed, too clumsy. The Gunslinger watches, unmoving. The kid fires, but in his panic the shots go wild, kicking up the dirt at the Gunslinger’s feet. The hammer clicks again and again, and then the kid is fumbling, trying to reload. The Gunslinger draws. He shoots straight.