The band lost its heart by his third drink, a strong shot of something fancy, yet powerful. He wouldn't remember the name afterwards. It was hard to play for a one man audience that spent most of his time looking the opposite direction. When they stopped at the end of one piece and didn't start up, he didn't seem to register the loss and so they packed up and headed out into the night with their cased instruments. He got his fifth shot. The bartender figured for a lonely night earlier, let the band leave on account of that, and had a hard time figuring out what to do with the man in the dark, almost black it was so dark, green overcoat. Lizard hide it looked, the way that it had bumps all over and ridges at the collar. Man didn't talk, just dug into his pockets and flicked another few coins onto the bar. He hadn't even said a word when he came in, just pointed at a bottle back behind the bar and dropped some money down. His lips were like old monks to speech, and like them they seemed to hold their alcohol well. Clock in the corner wound itself around 'till it hit three am. Bartender would shut down earlier, but the man kept the money flowing and he had needed an excuse to stay up and clean out some of the gunk that accumulated on the floor behind the bar. Three o'clock though and the man stands up, click of his boots match the tick and he leaves a few more coins on the bar. Leaves through the saloon-style doors. It's a bright night out, moons both shining out and the stars in compliment. Bright enough to have real shadows. Shadows some men hide in. Despite the drinks his hands find the holsters easily, practiced. Draw like a spark and the aiming happens half-way through the trigger pull. Other man's out before he saw the motion, before his carefully aimed rifle could fire off. Night like this you forget the sound of gunfire, it gets drowned out in the silence. Minute later and you doubt you heard anything at all. Next morning the crows will find him though. Walking down the streets, the other few filled shadows empty out their occupants, slumping over in mid-shot as he walks. Some near the end just slink off deeper before he comes. Too many to forget now, the scent of the powder mixing in a trail that leads back to the bar's steps. Maybe people are awake, bartender still is, but they don't appear from inside the wooden shacks. Other end of the village a man sits in the moonlight. No hat on, silvery hair bright in the moonlight and a gun across his lap. Stops a good twenty yards back from him. Looks deep in that direction, seeing more of the gun than the man. Inlaid silver handle, ivory carved out in the shape of a wolf and carefully tapped into place. A long steel barrel with a polished shine to it. Man nods in recognition of it, looks up after a while. Chair man is just grinning. Doesn't seem to perturbed. Man's shadow creeps closer to the chair as the moons set behind him. Touches the leg and he draws. Fast, like he means it. Eyes hard and clear. Other man disappears, clack of the gun into the chair. Man walks up and holsters his pistol. Gingerly grabs the gun where it lies. Other man watches, leaning up against the wall of a nearby house. Fades out to leave the man with his old rifle, goin' to exist himself elsewhere for a while. He'll be back, never does leave the man for long, always shows up after a night like this. Lone man in the street turns around and walks back to the bar. Bartender's just about to go to bed, putting away the mop and the bucket right then. Can smell the burnt gunpowder and registers the rifle slung over the man's shoulder.
"Sir, I'ma need that last drink if you don't mind. On a night like this one, spirits are genuine powerful in a man."
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