“Who is she?” he asked, admiring the gunslinger’s iron.
The carving took him months. Its ivory grip was adorned with a woman’s likeness engraved on both sides. Careful etchings captured her dark hair and eyes, beautiful face almost smiling, forever frozen in time.
The gunslinger could almost feel her again, those raven locks dancing in the night wind when they made love by dim camp fires.
The question is answered with a round through the man’s heart, the entire saloon erupting in screams.
“The woman I love, the one you killed,” the gunslinger whispered even though no one heard him.
