Slaughter Gulch

In one fluid motion you draw your colt and jam the barrel underneath the sheriff's chin, all before his fingers brush the butt of his own gun. Forcing him onto his tiptoes, you glare into his terrified eyes.

"They say a man never lies with his final breath," you growl hoarsely, drawing the hammer back for effect. "You got any final truths, sheriff?"

The old man's eyes bulge and he turns pale as a ghost. His mouth works frantically but the only sound is a strangled croak.