“Now fella, I reckon it’s only fair for me to warn ya that you ain’ the first to come seekin’ that.” The gravelly voice at first was hard to place, but a closer look revealed it to emanate from an old looking drifter wrapped up in his duster with a hat plonked firmly over his head. He was sat outside the barbers of all places, nestled on a bench watching the world go by. Now however it seemed his lazy day was to be ruined by quite the figure indeed. Dressed as the sheriff no less, which probably meant the worst had befallen him. Never mind that though, people died all the time on the frontier. If it wasn’t to some mad stranger it would have been disease or the wild animals so that was all there was to it. The travel stained old man stood, greyish black hair falling in strands around his lined, weary, face as he brushed some lint from his riding chaps and kicked his boot against the wood of the decking. 

“An’ I can’t imagine you’ll be the last neither.” He warned, stepping slowly out into the street, only the closest inspection revealing that he was in actuality playing close attention to his challenger. It was unwise to expect honour in anyone in the west. Hell, he barely had much himself. Just enough to walk into the street and throw back his duster at the waist, revealing an off colour shirt and more importantly the ivory handles of two revolvers strapped to an ammo-belt. At that point the only bystander stupid enough to still be in the way swiftly retreated to the tavern, where onlookers gaped through the wide window, ready to take cover if bullets started flying.

The sun stood before the Tired Gun, or Jonah as he was named by the oriental assassin stood just thirty feet before him. His shadow sat behind him, and it foreshadowed death as his hands stroked the handles of his guns. 

“Sure you be wantin’ to walk down this road then mister?”