The sharp-shooting marksman was all alone, chewing on his toothpick, gently trotting on horseback; nothing for company except cactus and the trail of dust he had left behind after killing off his rivals in a two-day gunfight. He had reigned supreme, hitting target after target, and one by one the others faltered and fell.

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Or so he thought before he heard the rumbling of horsehoofs, and through a cloud of grit and dirt appeared his foes; riding, galloping, charging towards him in the horizon.

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He stood up in his stirrups. They were still some distance behind. Should he hurry ahead? Or remain calm, confident that they would never catch him?