The crow had been staring at him for an hour.  Head cocked.  An occasional hop toward him and back in his filthy cage.  He pretended not to notice, but eventually he locked onto the bird’s glossy, black eyes.  The old man had tricked him.  And now he was here, in this dust bowl of a stage stop.  Ready to explode from the cage of his own memory. 

Dan Blackmoor.  Gun for hire.

She rejected his ring.  His father’s store had gone under.  He passed away before the war ended, and Dan took over the store; betting it all on a new “modern appliance” called an ice box.  In a record heat wave, this should have been good for business.  But they lived a good two day’s ride from the ice house and a full week from any natural source to harvest.  It all went tits up before Fall.  No wife, no family, no business, no more war to fight.  He set out to make his own fortune.

With nothing left to lose, he answered an ad.  The old man dangled this carrot in front of him and he climbed aboard the first wagon west.  Collect this bounty and he’d make a name for himself, not to mention a tidy fortune.  The old man never told him the target was already dead.

He had shot “Tiger” Tom Taylor three times.  Three days in a row.  In a few minutes, Tom would walk back in and he would announce the warrant and there would be a fight.  If luck was still on his side, he’d get the drop and Tom would fall dead in the street, once more.

Each tick of the clock in the tower grew louder.  The minute hand groaned and landed with a thunk he felt in his chest.  There were hoof beats.  The bell chimed.  Dead noon.  Here we go again.