It started there. It ended here.

The wind whipped gritty dust across the dead, hard soil. The warm ground was cracked and yellowed, years of abuse from feet, wagon wheels, and prairie heat alike.

Jones locked eyes with McHartley. He stood unflinching, ten feet Jones' opposite. Framed by storefronts and endless heartland hills, he looked like a man not afraid of death. Jones must've looked the same.

McHartley stared back into Jones' eyes with a fierceness not matched in his soul. Jones' eyes told war stories. His posture spoke of men killed and men who did it. McHartley had heard stories from the far West. Of blood and freedom.

Stories were told; life? Well, life was lived.

Fate would be so generous as to make room for both avenues today.

The two souls nodded at each other, in a unison not unknown to empty men. They broke stance and turned their backs to one another with trust akin to lifelong friends. They each counted their steps. Leather holsters carrying instruments of death whispered accusations in the stiff breeze.

These steps would be a man's last. Which man?

Fate knows. Fate knows all too well, for foolish men call it a fool's game.

Time took a long, slow breath, preparing for the next twenty seconds.

Death readied Its scythe, prepared to reap Its crop.

Life clung to the shadows. There was scarcely room for It today.

Jones and McHartley stopped in their tracks. Ten steps had been counted on both their parts, fairly and evenly. Men prepared to die are men with good sportsmanship.

People watched silently from hand-blown windows, but they were ignored on all fronts. This was none of their stories.

How many seconds passed with those two men's backs facing each other, nobody knows. It was a soft, slow moment, the type of moment where men cry. But no tears were shed, only bowed heads and trembling hands. Presumably, both men were heaving their prayers into wherever their beliefs lay. Presumably, they were preparing to die.

Presumptions are a fool's game.

In godly harmony, the men faced each other. Solemn nods were exchanged. Hands were shaken with the devil.

One of these men had sold his soul. The other was buying. It was a transaction kept in the black until payments were made.

A shopkeeper had stepped out from the shadows. He wanted it to be over with. He started his count at five. Why he didn't start at three, only he knows.

"Five." Hands went to hips, fingers brushing sandalwood and oak.

"Four." Jones was a lefty. McHartley was a righty.

"Three." The men made final adjustments to their shooting stances.

"Two."

"One."

The shopkeeper clapped, his eyes shut tight.

A regretful gunshot rang out, and a man fell like timber.