Three days later, Clarkson stood in the town square. In a small town like this one, word travels quick. When someone hears a Gun fight's a'comin, they tend to change their schedules. Clarkson looked at the church clock. 11:56. Would the man in black be late to his own duel? Sure enough, Clarkson heard that damn laugh coming from behind. He spun, the man in black looking him square in the eye. As per the deal, the Gun he wielded was in a holster around his foot. "Ready to do this, pilgrim?" His grating laugh continued.
Tick. Tick. Tick. The silence was palpable. The man in black stood on the east, Clarkson the accountant on the west. 11:57 went by, then 11:58. 11:59... Tick. Tick. Tick. 30 seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. 15. Tick. Tick. Clarkson wiped a bead of sweat from his fat face, eyes tensed, hand at the ready. Ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four...
The bell went off, and there was a single, dull thud.
The man in black, Crockett, moved forward to Clarkson, laughing that damned infernal laugh. He looked on the corpse's neck, at the small heart shaped mark burnt into the back of it. He grabbed the Gun and reverently stored it in a wrapped blanket, then one of his horse's saddlebags. "Ya'll can escape for so long," Crockett said, putting a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. "In the end, though, everybody's on Death Row."