It was a sunny day here, and I strolled down dusty Main Street. Past the Bourbon Barrel Saloon, past Dr. Bean's Drug Store, past the Fivemile Saloon.

And there he was. Waiting, his sawed-off 10 gauge in hand. I could smell the whiskey on him from where I was. Dirty he was also; he hadn't has his annual bath for a couple of years.

I cranked a round into my Winchester and shouted his name. He turned, a growl on his lips. The Greener came up and it was like looking down two three-foot sewer pipes. Then it roared and he was, briefly, obscured by the smoke.

I wasn't hit, and I raised the Winchester. My first shot spun the shotgun out of his hand and the second tore the buttons off his suspenders.

His pants fell around his feet as he stood there, holding his wrist.

I levered in another round. The 92 was still aimed dead at him and he fell to his knees, pleading for his scummy life. He looked ridiculous kneeling there in the middle of the street, each knee planted squarely in the middle of the leavings of a passing horse, begging and sobbing like a kid whose favorite toy was broken.

I lowered the rifle and he went for his Colt. Before he could get a shot off I has hip-shot and the equalizer flew from his hand. Now was the time for killing.

I didn't. I walked over and said, "Next time, don't try a shotgun at 300 yards. You couldn't hit the side of a barn from the inside anyway" and kicked the scattergun across the street and into a tub of cement mixture.

And I left him there, his six-shooter crammed up his...no, can't say that in a Western. I just took his guns away.