[i]My weapon?[/i] 

“You ain’ ready to handle my iron mister, believe me.”

His weathered right hand, gloveless, ran across the brim of his hat, drawing it low so the shade covered his eyes. Those dark green eyes that would have better suited a hawk were swamped by shadow, and the Tired Gun dropped his hand and ran his right finger tenderly over the handle of Mistress. Let the new Sheriff speak what he willed, do what he willed, think what he willed. This was the West, and only one of them belonged here. The West was in his blood, his bones, even his guns. It chewed men up and spat out survivors, wiry cold eyed creatures with the grit one needed to last a day on the frontier. Jonah fucking belonged here, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

This was just like any other day for the Tired Gun, nothing special, routine even. He wasn’t even particularly bothered yet. Cautious maybe, but everyone worth his salt was cautious. He weren’t scared, his old heart wasn’t pumping sandy blood just yet. 

Suddenly, there was iron in his hand. Mistress had leapt into his palm almost as if it had a mind of its own, so quick it didn’t even bare thinking about. It didn’t look like he’d whipped the weapon out, but rather there was a blur and suddenly an explosive sound that heralded a discharged round, fired from the hip, his left hand shooting to the hammer, rocking it back, another shot, and another, and another, and another and one last round. Six shots faster than a man could see, faster than a man could think. Hip to chest, that was what was what, not bad considering he was already moving, strafing on right, his gun half-way back in its holster before the echo of his last round had faded in the empty street. Not a first shot, first shots, six of them. The Tired Gun didn’t do half measures.