I emptied my revolver, rapid fire, straight into his stomach. There was a moment, it seemed, where he buckled, but as the blasts of gunpowder gave way to quiet clicks, he straightened up and proceeded to march toward me.
The skin of his face—tanned, dried out leather—hung from his skull in tatters. The dark things accounting for eyes glimmered in the torchlight. He spoke:
“Man has not made a weapon to stop me.”
He was getting closer, his hand going toward his hip. Stowing my piece in its holster with one hand, I eased open the clasp holding together the coils of my whip with the other.
“I was once the quickest gunman in the west,” he boasted, his zombied hand reaching ever nearer the worn and yellowed horn handle of his gun. “Nowadays,” I couldn’t tell if he were smiling or not, “between the quick and the dead, I’m the dead, but I still win.”
The gun was coming out of its holster. He was taking his time. At the first glint of the barrel rising free from the worn leather, my whip cracked.
“No!” he screamed.
His gun went sailing off into the darkness.
Tale Told 