One-eye-Jim had gotten his revenge. He had shot that no good kid who took his eye out with that slingshot, and shot him good. After the first thirty bullets entered the scoundrel’s body, he had to go to the general store to buy some more to put in him. But it felt so good to do so.
He was sitting now in a seedy tavern, sipping a fine sarsaparilla and milling over his recent victory. Jim was so full of the stout beverage that he didn’t even notice when he was backstabbed by one of his best friends. Literally. Actually stabbed. With a knife.