My finger itched the butt of my silver revolver. I grasped it as the cowboy in the dark leather vest and cow-hide hat drew his. I knew I had seconds before his bullets pierced my skin. My hand nearly slipped from the sweat covering my palm but I held fast. I leapt to the side, the wind whipping against my face. The cowboy fired his own revolver at me. I felt the bullet fly by my face, felt the hair on my head being cut off by it. The ground near my face shattered and dust blew on my shirt. I hit the dry, dusty ground and clicked back the hammer of my revolver. As I clutched it in both hands I noticed it shining in the light. The ground to my right exploded as the cowboy attempted to end my existence once again. I didn’t flinch. The sweat stopped dripping off my brow and I aimed at the cowboys heart. I slowly pulled the trigger and, though the gun recoiled, my arm was like a rock. The gun released its bronze death upon the cowboy and he died there, on the desert. My ears hurt, but I smiled. It was over.