Apart from a fainting saloon girl (hoisted back from the floor with her dress soiled by beer) and an elderly miner loudly commentating the proceedings to an aged friend, every pair of hands in the tavern rose.

"Keep quiet," the ringleader turned his gun in the Miner's direction.

"What did he say?" The hearing impaired mate asked.

"Ta keep quiet! You wouldn't hear of that back in our day, would you?" They both tut-tutted in ignorant bliss.

Jese could hear the ominous click as the ringleader cocked his gun.

The elderly men quietly raised their hands.

Taking advantage of his distracted focus, Jese leaned across the bar to snatch a large unopened bottle of whiskey. None of his fellow patrons noticed the bold move. All of them, Jese decided, were too busy watching their pathetic lives flash before their eyes.

Over the years Jese had seen even the most reckless and half insane men tranquilized by the sight of a mere handgun. However, after ample experience at both ends of firearms, Jese was no longer so blinded by the overwhelming fear of death. Instead, his opportunistic character was flourishing in the moment of stunned silence.

Jese noticed the barkeep fluster and fumble through wads of cash, taken from his busy trade that evening. From where Jese stood, he could see that the man was edging toward a shelf much lower down with a large military style steel box on it. Whether he was going to - stupidly- offload more treasure than he really needed, or if he had some dangerous weaponry hidden there, Jese couldn't decide. As the barkeep moved his hand down toward the box, Jese thought fast.

To throw a hand grenade, or open fire with some kind of heavy artillery, in a room full of people was pure insanity. If the Barkeep was closer to the men it would have been safer for the crowd but from that distance then innocent lives would be lost. If not struck by the grenade blast then the falling debris could cause bodily harm if not death to patrons seated meters away. That wouldn't worry the publican - in such tough financial times people were collateral and money was everything.

Jese had to stop the situation himself before anyone got hurt.

There was no way that he alone could take on eight fully armed men. He noted where they were standing. Concentrating on their positions and their focus. Jese noted their sense of absolute confidence, which would work out in his favor.

The fumbling barkeep and the nervous saloon girls made a slightly hysterical backdrop to the eight burly men. Having that many fully loaded weapons held in the hands of maniacs. Sphincter Clenching Chaos, Jese acknowledged.

The full bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm, Jese leaned over and ripped the strap from his forlorn companion's beribboned dress. The bodice sagged forward immodestly, revealing a black lacy corset and a whole heap of paper fine cleavage.

She screeched and clasped at her bodice, trying to cover herself.

Sucking air deeply into his lungs he charged into action. Muscles that had been clenched in fear now moved with ease. Everything became a blur as he rushed across the tavern to the front doors, only slowing once to grab a freshly lit cigar out of the slackened mouth of an onlooker. With the cigar, now firmly wedged between his own molars, Jese raced over and ducked behind a large table.

The men, unnerved by his actions, had begun firing at him. But now, with his shoulder wedged under the heavy pine, Jese felt like he'd bought time. Until he saw the bullets bite through the table about him. The subsequent holes letting light filter through. Far too close to his head for comfort.

Yanking the cork from the bottle of alcohol that he'd taken from the bar he tucked the Saloon Girl's strap into the neck, submerging a good two inches into the amber fluid. Puffing furiously at the cigar he watched the red embers grow bigger, devouring the end of the cigar. Holding the strap just so he watched as the fabric caught fire. Flames licked up the flimsy material, they engulfed the fabric until it was close enough... dangerously close...

Hurling the bottle at the men he heard rather than saw the bottle explode into angry flames. Furniture was relentlessly pushed back from the blast.

Peering through a bullet hole Jese could see that three of the men had become skittish from the explosion and escaped quickly out onto the street. He was surprised to note that the ringleader was one of the escapees. His tone, so full of bravado, obviously compensated for a flighty character, Jese decided. And of the men left on the premises, there was one motionless corpse while his closest accomplice struggled to stand up. That left three, of the more determined henchmen, advancing quickly on Jese's hiding place.

Biting down on his lower lip, Jese stood, as quickly as humanly possible under the weight of that solid table. The heavy piece of furniture acted as both a protective shield and a weapon. Jese watched as the table fell aggressively onto the closest man and pinned him to the ground. Deftly pulling his pistol from the waistband of his pants Jese shot one bullet into the man's thigh, to slow him further.

Jese ducked down to lean on the overturned table. He aimed and fired neatly. One of his bullets hitting an assailant in his right hand.

Jese had to make sure his aim was accurate, he didn't want to kill anyone because he didn't need any attention from the authorities. However, he was going to enjoy hurting them.

The man, dropping his weapon, realized his vulnerability and high tailed it onto the street. Leaving the last man advancing, increasingly doubtfully. While still holding his gun the man was no longer the proud owner of the overconfident bravado that he'd possessed when he'd swaggered into the establishment. Perhaps he'd realized that if he managed to shoot Jese then he still had to get out safely.

With all of the mayhem, the Saloon's patrons had jumped to action and started advancing on what remained of those eight burly men. Some had even left the tavern in pursuit of the escapees. Jese aimed and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Crap! He needed to reload his gun before the approaching man could get to him.

"Stubborn prick aren't ya?" Jese asked the last man chattily, trying to buy for time. His hands busily reloading the weapon. "Not going to run out of here like the others?"

Looking around uneasily the man shook his head. He lifted his gun in Jese's direction. His face so full of indecision, he gazed about for reassurance before pulling the trigger.

A bullet bit into Jese's shoulder. His body was pushed backward by the force.

"Single-minded," Jese commented. "I like that in a person." A little white lie. Nova Radcliffe's single-mindedness was driving him insane. But he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of thinking about her on his death bed.

The man, more determined now, lifted his gun again and pulled the trigger.

The second bullet dug its way into his flesh next to the first. Jese felt the warm sticky blood coursing down his sleeve. Touching a hand to the wound he pulled it away, dark red. He could see the henchman looking even more determined to get his aim right. His arm was lifting yet again. This time higher, toward Jese's head. There was a good chance that the third shot would also be as badly aimed as the first two. But the third time was supposed to be a charm, right? Jese thought bitterly. He didn't want to mortally injure any of them. But he also wasn't ready to die himself.

Jese jerked into another position and then raised his reloaded gun and pulled the trigger. Watching his would-be assassin falling to the floor. Dead before contact.

Shoving the gun back in its holster Jese glanced around. In all of the commotion, he had lost sight of his companion. Where she'd disappeared to he couldn't see. Perhaps she was in a rush to mend her badly ripped dress. Whether she would come back that night or not was anyone's guess. Frustration overwhelmed him. He wasn't good at waiting.

There were enough men searching for the henchmen, he could return to his earlier goal... finding the men trying to poach his fiancee's cattle. If he waited for the sad saloon girl to return then the men could have easily moved on.

There were two options. Sit down and tend to his wounds, while soothing his irritation by copious amounts of alcohol, or he could set out to find them. He knew the second option was foolish. Regardless, with blood oozing out of the cuff of his sleeve and people approaching to congratulate him, he marched out into the dark.