Tumbleweeds ran through the barren streets of Agua Fría. Everett had stopped before a small shack on the outskirts of the town. Despite its height of two floors and even a porch, the "house" was in ruins. The windows were boarded up with planks of wood. A single black horse was tied up outside and drank from a nearby trough, it was still full to the brim. Sheriff Goodman stood beside Everett.

Both held the same stance as they looked before them. One hand on the unbuckled gun holster and the other resting on their hip, elbow flared outwards.

"Come out with yer hands up!" Everett shot one bullet into the air, as per regulation.

Sand ran through the air as the wind caught it. Everett used his left hand to take off his hat and rest it against his chest. He knocked against the door. Three long knocks with one quick at the end. No one came.

Everett stepped back and rejoined Clayton, "Seems there ain't nobody home. I'm gonna step in and see if we can't find the name of this boy."

The door creaked open as he stepped inside, the clack of his boots reverberated against the floorboards. Suddenly, a hand grasped his shoulder and shoved him against the wall. Despite the way his revolver was grasped in his hand, he let go as he felt the cold metal of death on the underside of his chin. A LeMat revolver was violently brandished by the man before him.

His strong jaw was clenched and he stared at Everett with anger in his heart. A few strands of his long and choppy black hair had drifted onto his forehead, they stopped alongside his medium thickness eyebrows. The outlaw had a long scar that travelled across his face and laid beneath his dark brown eyes. It darkened his entire face.

He whispered and pushed the gun further against Everett Chin, pointing their eyes in line with each other, "Tell me why, I shouldn't just shoot y'a right now."

"Well first off, I ain't even 'ere to kill y'a."

"What?" Everett thought that the Outlaw might drop the gun at that moment, but unfortunately that's when Sheriff Goodman walked in. Completely unbeknownst to him of the growing threat within the dilapidated house.

"Ranger Sykes?" Sheriff Goodman's head peered past the doorway, upon seeing the situation, he immediately pulled his revolver.

"I'll shoot you both dead right now."

"How 'bout you do it like a man, a proper shootout, at dawn."

"If I win, you will leave me alone? All y'all lawmen?"

"Sure." Everett was known as Everett “Gun Slinger” Sykes. There ain't no way that this outlaw is walking away alive at dawn.

"Deal." They didn’t shake hands, both unwilling to touch each other.

"Ranger Everett Sykes. Pleasure to meet y'a." They shook hands. "Victor Wiley."

"Well Victor I'll be seeing ya at dawn won't I?"

The clock stroked dawn and as both men had agreed. They stood across from each other. Others had gathered on the porches of the shops, excitement for the coming shootout ran through the early morning air.

Both men stared down at each other from across the town road. The air was tense as they stared down at each other.

As both men went to raise their guns- a shot rang out. Six men stood at the mouth of the town, their guns drawn and eyes decorated with the expectation of violence. The bullet whizzed past Everett towards Victor. His eyes wide and his body unmoving. The shooter went to take another shot but Everett dove towards Victor and pushed him into the alley between the bar and the healer's shop.

"We're in a bad box here. Who are those men?"

"The Roscoe gang. They're after me. Why do you think I'm here?" He rattled off to Ranger Sykes like he was stupid.

"How about you help me take down those men and I get you to safety?"

"How about I help you take down those men and you help me take down their entire gang?" The Roscoe gang was notorious throughout the land for their extreme violence and nasty men. The chance to take them down could mean ridding the streets of their antics and keeping citizens safer. After all, Everett needed to get the outlaw out of town, away from these civilians. Maybe letting him leave willingly would mean less civilian casualties.

Everett held out his hand. Victor stared at it for a moment, clasped it and shook, "Deal."

Victor immediately dove out and shot one man dead in the middle of his forehead. Smoke wisped upwards from the muzzle of his gun. The Roscoe gang goonies took cover behind a nearby wall. Victor kept shooting, reloading and shooting more. Everett wondered just how many bullets he had on his person.

A hand grasped Everett's shoulder and threw him into the street, his back sliding through the sandy road. A large man stood above him, a scar similar to Victors brandished his cold face.

Victor continued to shoot another man, this time the bullet pierced his shoulder, eliciting an agonizing scream from the goon as blood poured down the front of his chest. The bullet obliterated the shoulder's artery.

Victor's face showed no wrinkle of emotion as he watched the man bleed out in front of him. He didn't even attempt to assuage the man's agony by making his death swift. Everett thought, perhaps I shouldn't have struck a deal with this man.

The large man's attention no longer caught by his dying comrade turned back towards Everett. Before the man knew what would happen, Everett hooked his right foot around the man's ankle and stomped at his knee. The goon fell with an uph! Everett swung up and put two bullets in his chest and one through his forehead.

One man broke his cover by poking his head up to take a shot at Victor but Everett shot him before the bullet could even pass through his chamber.

Victor shot one man in the foot and proceeded to knock him down with the toe of his boot so his opponent elicited a loose growl of pain before Victor shot him cleanly in the forehead.

One man was left standing, his face gruff and eyes mean. Despite his angry aura, his hands shook. Parts of his shirt were spattered with the blood of his friends. The sight made Everett queasier than he would've liked to admit. "Go."

The man ran.

Soon the adrenaline rushed from Everett's veins and citizens had rounded the corner. They picked up the bodies and moved them out of the town square. One pair of hands on feet and the other on arms. Victor's eyes tracked as a woman's delicate hand slipped into the pocket of the dead men and pulled out a couple dollars.

"I ain't no pastor, but I don't kill without a reason." Victor stated. It made Everett question why Victor wanted to take down the Roscoe gang anyway.

Sheriff Goodman turned to Everett, his forehead was indented with worry lines, "R y'a sure y'a want to do this? Victor Wiley's, a dead man walking. You’re walkin’ with two lead feet.”

“A deal’s a deal.”