It was less impressive that the Old Gun had taken six shots in the time the Sheriff had taken one, but rather that only three of those shots were at him. With reflex born from untold practice and supernatural power, his barrel tilted and the three follow up rounds took the blade projectile in mid-air, battering it from its course and sending it off to the cowboy’s left. He could have probably moved quick enough to avoid it anyway once he saw the weapon being levelled, but taking it out with his own shots was far easier. As easy as stepping up onto the decking and holstering Mistress, only for Spouse to fly into his hand with that same confusing motion. That one that seemed to the casual eye to show the weapon literally launching itself snugly into his palm. Truth was, he was just that fast.  

The Tired Old Gun wasn’t one to deliberate on what he was up against. It wasn’t nothing he’d ever fought before, but it had killed the Sheriff, that was enough in his book. Jonah too had found himself the momentary protection of a post, set on the left side of the short staircase he’d taken up onto the decking that stood along the side of the street. He crouched suddenly as he made his way around it, and his hand flew to his gun. Both of them mirrored each other across the street, reaching their respective post, turning around it. His stature had changed so suddenly and dramatically that only one blade still threatened him, he took it with two rounds and fired two more at the desperado, saving the last two for a special occasion. The blade cut into the wood before him and showered him in shards and splinters, but that was all. He peered across the street and waited for a decent target, or inspiration, whichever came first.