Thirty seconds. From his striving, his heart, his life, all that remains is thirty seconds of dust, determination, scuffle. From rumours and elaborations all the truth that survives is guns, death and names. All the reasons, will, even the sides have become confused.

When he shot McLaury John threw his shotgun away, not realising it had been effective without the expected bloom of red in his enemy's stomach. Shotguns toss his ruined frame with their recoil. It was the only thirty seconds he handled such a weapon. Now he hears it is his favourite. There hadn't even been a corral.

Year: 1881
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