I’m screwed. Time seems to crawl by as I try to cram more bullets into my revolver, huddling behind an outhouse. The bastards have me cornered. I can hear their sneers just around the corner. My comrade is lying in front of me, his brown duster turning red as blood flows from the holes in his back. A fleeting moment passes. The first of the sonuvabitches shows his ugly mug, swiveling to my view. I act on instinct, pulling my knife and throwing it in his face with one smooth move. I’m on my feet before his body hits the ground. If I’m going to die, I might as well die with my boots on. The Colt in my hand roars as I open fire on the second ranger. I only had time to load two bullets, and both of them find their way to the black-clad lawman’s heart. The third bastard is upon me. He swings his axe, but I manage to kick him away, scrambling for my second knife. I launch after him, determined to plant the blade between his eyes.
Turns out there is a fourth one. I catch him from the corner of my eye, but I’m too slow. Sawn-off shotgun blasts its deadly payload right into my side. I hit the ground hard. I’m done for. Just as I slip into unconsciousness, I hear a gruff voice yelling from the distance. “PASS THE WHISKEY!”