Jostice pivoted his right foot and swung his left around slowly, shifting at his hips. Easy. No need to rush to my grave. When his neck turned his head whipped around while his eyes fell on the older man standing twenty paces away. Both guns raised. Though at this distance he still couldn't shoot for shit. But it only takes one, Jostice reminded himself.
Morgan Dale opened his mouth, and it moved, but his words were lost in the madness. Jostice eyes followed his lips. He wasn't much for a lip reader but he guessed..."You were right," Morgan Dale spoke. Of what? He was uncertain...Likely that the Mayor had a liar's tongue.
Jostice's eyes shifted to the two revolvers held pointed in his direction. There was a funny thing about them; a faint green-leaf glow that danced through the barrels like a firefly that'd been stuffed inside. He glared up at the man. Clever old fool...
Jostice sensed the wagon to his left, that or he saw it through his peripheral, this wasn't the time to ponder. There was a second between the eye contact and his dash to safety; he bent down and rolled in the same instance; two wails and two bullets hit the dirt, exploding. The force sent him into the air. His body pushing left while a vibrant greenish-yellow flame bit at his heels. He hit the wall. There was no sense, only reaction; he pulled the coat to his face, shielding away the flames...and hit the ground. Jostice then swung out his revolver and fired blindly: A crack into the wagon. A pop into the porch. And silence to a stray that found the air.
Jostice then sprung and flew three paces until his body found dirt; he rolled, beating down the flames that fought for life. His hat had gone astray as the heat began to bite. Several more rolls and he stood dusting off his hat, smoke bleeding from his garments, lifting towards the sky. The smell of charred leather in his nose.
He hadn't noticed the cheers and whistles during his escape from hellfire, but the crowd was on their feet, waving hats and hands like fools. I hope this pleases you, Jostice swore at the Mayor. He could sense the man who stood at the edge of the podium like a fat blueberry. Likely smelling of lavender with hands clean of their filth.
I need to finish this...
Jostice planted his hat and lifted the revolver in his right hand; in a blur he popped the cylinder, slid in the achellet, and gave it spin; he stopped the metal with his thumb. A red glow drained down his barrel, the bullet ready.
He glanced out into the street where Morgan Dale was standing. Empty. Like he'd been a ghost that'd vanished with the grass fire. This was the old man's ploy. To confuse him. Hit him at every angle until Jostice grew weary and made a mistake...And a mistake was likely near.
The Ace slid to the wall of the gunshop and that's when he noticed the pain. It was in his gun hand, a numbing burn at the back. His eyes dropped and the torchlight revealed black flesh, red and goopy. But there was no time for worry.
Jostice moved around the back of the buildings, this time taking to the shadows. Moving like a phantom from one structure to the next. Eyes working; he could see better without the blinding torch light, And his senses seemed heightened, Maybe because the crowd had gone and hushed.
When he got to the breach between the saloon and office something caught his attention. It appeared black on the tan saloon corner; five dots and a round smudge. A hand print, Jostice thought. Looks like I'm not the only man wounded. He knew it was the stray to the wind that nicked his advisory.
He moved down the breach with ease, gun raised at the print, the hammer cocked back for quick release. Morgan Dale was on the other side of the saloon corner, Jostice was certain of it. Five paces away he felt his heartbeat. He wasn't nervous...it was preparing him to engage. At three paces something didn't feel right. It's too easy...And sloppy. With Morgan Dale nothings easy. At one pace Jostice realized his mistake-
Morgan Dale leaped from the office corner; Jostice swung around. Too late... His gun was smacked from his hand and whirled out into the street. The old man yelled, his arm swung wildly. This was unlike him to engage close range. The Ace shifted and pivoted. Ducked and dodged as a blade cut the air violently. Jostice backpedalled into the street, withdrawing a blade of his own...
He swung downward with all his might as the old man raised his blade to meet his; the knives clashed as sparks sprung into the air. The men danced in the middle of the street. A killing dance. Their blades and bodies moving in unison. A step forward and a slash; a step back and a parry. Each man trying to best the other. Morgan Dale spun to his knees and swung for Jostice's torso. The Ace stepped back and the old man found emptiness; his arm swinging from right to left. Jostice countered, bring the blade at a spiking angle. Morgan rolled, a just miss. The old man sprung upward using the weight of his fragile body; he connected to Jostice larger frame, sending him down into the dirt and his knife sliding beneath a porch.
Morgan was back on his feet charging. From the ground Jostice brought his right knee to his stomach; his leg shot forward until his boot buried into the old man's chest. A crack from a rib as Morgan flew back into the Saloon wall.
Jostice looked down the street...his revolver glowing red a few paces away. There was haste from both men; the Ace leaped for the gun while the Stormslinger jumped to his feet. Jostice grabbed the revolver, twisted, and aimed as Morgan slung his arm back then forward, his dagger spinning through the air. Jostice fired as the knife buried into his shoulder. He groaned.
Morgan Dale had no time to react. The red bullet zipped by his head, sinking into the saloon wall. There was a ball a fire and the old man disappeared. Jostice threw his hand over his eyes, shielding them until the flames dispersed. When safe, he found Morgan body laid out in the street, five paces away, charred and lifeless.
There a moment of silence...And then an uproar as the crowd went mad.