This was the Finn’s calling. The woman was still a few hundred yards away, sprinting towards the barn where the two were. Her smaller stature made the three men behind her, who had not yet noticed the Finn, easier to see. His eyes momentarily glanced up towards the sky and treeline. The breeze was coming in light from the east. He spat in acknowledgement to Allison’s worries that the men would kill her.

“They would,” he replied calmly, before dropping down on one knee next to the barn. He raised the rifle to his shoulder just as she ran down the hill to meet the woman. Her acts didn’t seem to hurry Torsten. What came next had to be done slowly. Purposefully. A sniper didn’t win his battles by being quick – he won them by being the calmest person on the battlefield. The large Finn brought the heavy Sharps rifle to his shoulder, peering through the rear ladder sight. He pointed the barrel upwards, allowing for the howitzer-like properties of the .45-110 bullet sitting ahead of the powder within the receiver. He let out a half breath, pulling the set trigger – before pulling the main.

The rifle exploded in an eruption of flame and blackpowder smoke. The bullet flew in a high arc, like a rainbow, before careening back towards the ground. It was made of pure lead, with enough force behind it to kill a full-grown water buffalo. The first man it impacted wouldn’t even know what hit him. He was a hulking man, with a bald head and tattoos across his face. Those tattoos disappeared in a fine, red mist. He was running when the heavy projectile hit him, throwing him backwards. 

The falling of the man in front of them, followed by the eventual report of the rifle, caused the other two to stop. They looked up to see the powder smoke that had taken their fellow and the woman running down after them. 

“I’ll kill you for that!” One of the two men, mustachioed and brawny, cried up at the hill. He and his friend began to sprint, just as soon as the rifle erupted again. They never saw who was shooting them – the blackpowder smoke kept Torsten from view. The mustachioed man fell next, his chest bursting open to expose a set of finely broken ribs. The third man, deciding that he had most certainly had enough, opted to turn and sprint towards the wood line. He was gone by the time Torsten had reloaded.

The woman they had chased had collapsed. Her brown hair was greasy with sweat, which intermingled with the blood that oozed from her chest. The three men, evidently escaped convicts, had performed a cruel mastectomy on the woman. Even in the best of circumstances at the best of hospitals she would likely die from the blood loss. Torsten watched from the hill, before slowly walking down the slope to join Allison.