Shin seemed to know a thing or two about positioning, but this was the West, and Jonah lived and breathed it. He’d turned right just as soon as he’d stepped out into the open air, managing a respectable speed for an old looking weary looking no good looking son of a gun. He jogged along the back row of buildings that ran the length of the street, one, two, three of the sturdy wooden structures he flew past before another right turn took him down a dark alley. It was hard to say where Shin would be by this point. If he had reason to, he might have sprinted to the far end of the roof and spotted Jonah’s coat tail disappearing in his peripheral, but he might just as well have no idea at all. Course, the Tired Old Gun wasn’t no master of stealth, all his masked foe had to do was use his ears. With each footfall there rang a jangle of metal, the spurs adorning each boot shaking and rattling, faint as it may be it made the man traceable. 

As did Shin’s own boots, not so thoughtfully adorned perhaps, but the Tired Old Gun knew how to listen. If he ran after him his heavy footfalls on the rooftop ahead would be hard pressed not to give away his position, and if he walked he had no chance of reaching Jonah before he slinked his way back onto the main decking, perhaps disappearing into a nearby house, perhaps setting up some other ambush. They were at a stalemate of sorts, but the Tired Gun could blend, question was, could Shin?