I heard the whistle of the bullet before it smashed the mirror behind Luanne’s bar. The split second before the mirror gathered a spider-web of cracks and Luanne screamed, I’d just made out the face of Rex Ratchen glaring from the saloon doors. Rex’s unmistakable leer, so often made after I’d thrown him into the county jail, likewise disappeared in the smattering of glass. 
	
I dropped my whiskey and fell to the ground. The whistle and heat of the shot stayed in my ear like I’d laid too close to a crackling campfire for too long. Landing on the floor with a roll, I hustled to get myself righted. Seen some folks who can shoot good laying on their side, but hell if I ever learned the trick. Easier to shoot something tall than something long, my experience shows.
	
Rex let off another shot. The hole in the floor was six inches wide from where I got a foothold. Staying on one knee, I drew my Colt. 
	
You see a lot when bullets are flying. Everything around you becomes clear as a glass chandelier, even if everything’s going to hell in a hand-basket. I saw it when I was in the Army, and I saw it when Rex was letting loose in Luanne’s. Charley Gumph the gambler huddled under a table, his fat belly heaving and thick hands shaking. Rich Vogel was holding his ears and hollering some gibberish from the floor. Cards were swept from the tables and glasses crashed as the last refugees scrambled for cover. 

But what I saw the most that split-second was Rex Ratchen. His beard of black, tangled hair obscured his whole neck. The shirt he wore seemed a size too small, his fat body pushing against the fabric like water pushing against a dam. A polished, brown-handled Schofield filled his left hand. His hat, a black Stetson with a series of notches punched into the rim, bobbed as he drew the hammer back again. 

And I knew, right there and then, he was looking for another notch.
	
I cocked the Colt just as he let another round loose. The whistle went by my other ear, the ringing and heat filling both sides of my head. But I knew luck was on my side: Rex was shooting one-handed and he was shooting too far away. The doors were about fifteen feet from where I’d been sitting, and with the roll, I was at twenty-five. Had he been thinking straight, he would’ve walked right up to me and shot me in the back of the head. But Rex wasn’t the smartest fellow in the world, and, both hands gripping the rusty black Colt, I let a shot off to remind him what happens when you make stupid decisions around an Arizona sheriff. 
	
Despite standing still as a statue for his first three shots, Rex lurched to the side quicker than I could pull the trigger. While my roll wouldn’t win any prizes, Rex’s sprawl made my reflexes look downright Olympian. I readied the Colt and rushed toward the table he’d landed behind. 

Somewhat dazed and laying on his left side, he fired twice at me as I closed the distance. 

Not even a graze on my arm. Like I said, shooting on your side is foolish. 
	
I fired, and a loud howl filled the room. The bullet got him in the right leg, just above the knee. 
	
“Give yourself up, Rex!” I hollered. “No use keeping up this foolishness!” I pulled the hammer back one more time, the [i]click[/i] the punctuation mark to my command.
	
Maybe it was hearing the voice of his former jailer, maybe it was the pain in his leg, maybe it was just that pig-headed stubbornness of his. Whatever it was, Rex launched himself up faster than I’d ever seen a man do. The Schofield was nearly righted my direction before I let off my shot.
	
Rex fell across the table and slammed into the floor. Once he settled, I approached him with a hesitant step. The Colt’s hammer clicked; I’d seen too many owlhoots play dead to take any chances.   
	
I stared down at Rex, his eyes already growing glassy as he stared up at the ceiling. It took me a few moments to find where the shot had landed. Against my Christian nature, I chuckled when I finally found the spot. 

Right in the middle of the crown, the Stetson had punched its final notch.