The Fastest Gun – Chapter 1

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The sun hung high in the midday sky, burning like a molten coin against the endless blue, its heat pressing down on the dry, cracked earth of the Arizona desert. The wind, dry as old bones, whispered through the tall, sun-bleached grass that lined the dirt road, carrying with it the scent of dust, horse sweat, and gunpowder long settled into the land.

A single rider moved along the winding trail, his silhouette dark against the shimmering heat waves that rolled off the ground. His black duster flared slightly with each gust, the fabric worn and dust-streaked from miles of hard travel. The brim of his hat cast a long shadow over his face, leaving only the sharp angles of his jaw visible beneath the shade. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the horizon with the ease of a man who had spent a lifetime expecting trouble.

The horse beneath him, a deep chestnut stallion with a streak of white running down its nose, snorted and flicked its ears as if sensing its rider’s mood. Its hooves struck the earth with steady, rhythmic beats, a sound swallowed quickly by the vast emptiness of the land.

Ahead, the town of Dry Creek came into view—a scattering of wooden buildings clustered together like a forgotten relic from another time. The saloon stood at its heart, its faded sign swinging on rusted chains, the paint peeling away in the relentless sun. To the left of it, the general store displayed barrels of goods beneath a shaded awning, while further down, the blacksmith’s forge sent thin ribbons of smoke curling into the sky.

People moved about their business, though with the slow, measured pace of those who had spent too long under the unforgiving sun. A woman in a faded blue dress swept dust from her porch, her movements lazy, more for habit than necessity. A group of children played near the well, their laughter ringing through the air as they took turns tossing pebbles into the water.

But the moment Bishop rode in, the energy shifted. Conversations dipped, eyes flickered toward him, wary and measuring. The town had seen men like him before—gunslingers, drifters, men who brought trouble with them like an unwanted shadow.

Bishop slowed his horse, guiding it toward the saloon with a light tug of the reins. As he dismounted, the leather of his saddle let out a quiet groan, and his boots hit the dirt with a soft thud. The air smelled of whiskey, sweat, and something fried—maybe pork, maybe something less appetizing.

He pushed through the batwing doors, stepping into the dimly lit space. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke, the low murmur of conversation filling the gaps between clinking glasses. A piano sat in the corner, unmanned, its keys long out of tune.

At the bar, a man wiped a glass with a rag that had seen better days, his gaze flicking up when Bishop entered. He didn’t speak—just gave a slow nod, the universal sign of recognition between men who knew not to ask too many questions.

Bishop slid onto a stool, his back to the wall, his eyes sweeping the room. The tension was there, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. He wasn’t the only man in this town carrying a reputation.

And he wasn’t the only one looking for trouble.

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The Fastest Gun – Chapter 2

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The saloon air was thick, carrying the scent of stale whiskey and bodies that had spent too long in the desert sun. The ceiling fan above creaked with every slow, lazy turn, stirring the smoke that hung in the room like a ghost refusing to leave. At a corner table, a group of ranch hands muttered over their drinks, while near the back, a card game was in progress, the players’ faces unreadable behind the thin curls of cigar smoke rising between them.

Bishop took a slow sip of his drink, the whiskey burning its way down his throat, warm and biting. His left hand rested lightly on the bar, fingers idly tapping against the wood, while his right hovered near his holster—never tense, but always aware.

Then, the doors swung open.

The sound was sharp, a sudden break in the background hum of the saloon, and for a moment, everything stilled. Even the bartender, who had spent years learning to ignore the comings and goings of dangerous men, paused in his cleaning.

Johnny Graves stepped inside.

The outlaw carried himself like a man who owned every room he entered. His black coat dusted the wooden floor as he moved, his spurs clicking with each step. The lamplight caught the silver buckles on his gun belt, twin revolvers sitting low on his hips. His dark eyes scanned the saloon, landing on Bishop with the ease of a man who had expected to find him there.

The room held its breath.

Bishop didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Just took another slow sip of whiskey, his fingers tightening slightly around the glass.

Graves took a step forward, boots grinding against the rough wooden planks. "Heard a lot about you," he drawled, his voice smooth, practiced. "Fastest gun in the West, they say."

Bishop finally set his drink down, the glass making a quiet clink against the bar. He exhaled slowly, then shifted just enough to glance at Graves.

"They say a lot of things," Bishop replied.

Graves smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was close now, standing just a few feet away, his fingers twitching near his belt. Around them, the saloon’s patrons began to shift, some easing away toward the walls, others pretending to be interested in their drinks but unable to stop watching.

The bartender moved a step back, his expression tight.

Bishop rolled his shoulders slightly, slow and deliberate. "You look like a man with somethin’ to prove."

Graves chuckled. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t like sharin’ titles."

Bishop’s eyes flickered down—just for a fraction of a second, but long enough to catch the movement of Graves’ hand near his revolver. His own muscles coiled, ready, his instincts sharpening into a razor’s edge.

"You draw on me, you best not miss," Bishop murmured.

A tense silence stretched between them, thin as a hair trigger.

The room waited.

Outside, the wind howled through the street, kicking up dust. A horse neighed somewhere in the distance, as if sensing the tension. The town, the people, the world itself seemed to pause, waiting for the inevitable.

Then—

A chair scraped loudly against the floor, shattering the moment.

A man at the card table cursed as his drink spilled, slamming his fist against the wood. The sound, unexpected and sudden, sent a jolt through the room.

For a split second, Graves’ attention flickered.

And that was all Bishop needed.

With a blur of motion, his right hand snapped down, fingers curling around the worn grip of his revolver. He moved with a speed that defied reason, the gun clearing leather before Graves had even reached for his own.

The click of the hammer was deafening in the silence.

Graves froze, staring down the barrel of Bishop’s revolver, his fingers hovering inches from his holster. His smirk was gone now, replaced by something colder, something that sat just beneath the surface of his carefully built confidence.

Bishop’s voice was quiet, steady. "Still wanna prove somethin’?"

Graves hesitated. Then, slowly, carefully, he let his hand fall away from his gun.

The saloon exhaled. Conversations resumed, though they were quieter now, more cautious.

Bishop lowered his revolver, sliding it back into its holster in one smooth motion. Then, without another word, he turned back to his drink.

Graves lingered for a moment longer before stepping away, his movements slower now, measured.

This wasn’t over.

Bishop knew it.

And so did he.

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The Fastest Gun – Chapter 3

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The afternoon sun leaned heavy against the sky, spilling golden light over the small town of Red Bluff. Dust swirled through the main street as a dry wind whispered through the wooden buildings, making the signs above the shops creak. A stray dog stretched lazily in the shade of the general store, his ears flicking at the occasional fly.

Children ran barefoot through the dusty street, kicking an old tin can between them, their laughter ringing out like a bell. A group of women gathered outside the dress shop, gossiping in hushed tones while a mother scolded her boy for trying to climb the fence near the livery stable.

Further down, outside the saloon, two men argued over a game of poker gone wrong. Their voices carried across the town, sharp and bitter.

"I told ya that was a legal hand, Dan!" one of them snapped, shoving the other.

Dan, a bearded man with a whiskey-stained shirt, spat in the dirt. "Legal my backside! You been dealin’ from the bottom of the deck!"

They squared up, fists clenched, but an old man rocking on the porch nearby let out a sigh. "Ain’t neither of you got the sense God gave a jackrabbit," he muttered, shaking his head.

Bishop sat outside the barbershop, one boot resting on the hitching post, the other firmly planted on the porch. He was watching, listening, absorbing the rhythm of the town. This was a place on edge.

They had seen violence before.

His fingers idly tapped against the handle of his right pistol, the dark wood smooth and worn from years of use. The left one, identical, rested in its holster like a sleeping rattlesnake. They weren’t just tools. They were part of him.

A crow cawed from the rooftop of the bank, flapping its wings before settling again, as if it, too, was waiting for sundown.

Across the street, Johnny Graves leaned against a post outside the gunsmith’s shop, a half-smoked cigar dangling from his lips. He wasn’t watching Bishop—at least, not directly. But every now and then, his eyes flicked over, measuring.

Bishop could feel it.

A slow, almost imperceptible shift in the air. The way the town’s usual hum had quieted just a little. The way people glanced toward them and then quickly looked away.

They knew what was coming.

And so did Bishop.

He took a deep breath, the scent of leather, dust, and tobacco thick in the air. He wasn’t nervous. He never was. But he could feel the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders like an old friend.

"You still sittin’ there like you got all the time in the world?" a voice said.

Bishop didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Silas Maddox, the town’s sheriff, stepped onto the porch beside him. He was an older man, with silver threading through his dark hair and lines carved deep into his face. He wore his star pinned high on his chest, his revolver slung low on his hip, but there was no mistaking the weariness in his eyes.

"You could just leave, you know," Silas muttered, pulling a cigar from his pocket. "Ain’t your fight."

Bishop gave a half-smile. "You ever known me to walk away from a fight?"

Silas huffed out a breath, biting down on the cigar. "Didn’t figure. But a man can hope."

He struck a match, the flame flickering in the afternoon breeze before he cupped his hand around it and lit the cigar. He took a long drag, exhaling slowly.

"Graves ain’t like the others you been takin’ out," he said, voice low. "Man’s meaner. Smarter."

Bishop glanced over at Graves again. The outlaw was laughing now, talking with a few rough-looking men near the blacksmith’s, but there was something calculated about it. The way he never fully turned his back. The way his fingers twitched near his belt.

"He’s not faster," Bishop said simply.

Silas sighed. "Guess we’ll find out."

Bishop stood, rolling his shoulders. "Guess we will."

The sheriff looked down at the dirt street, then back up at Bishop. "You sure you wanna do this?"

Bishop turned, meeting the older man’s gaze. "Sheriff, there’s only one thing I’m ever sure of."

Silas raised an eyebrow. "And what’s that?"

Bishop’s hand rested on his pistol grip, a slow, easy motion.

"I’m still alive."

Then he stepped off the porch, walking toward the center of town, where the sun would soon sink, and the guns would speak.

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The Fastest Gun – Chapter 4

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The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, melting into a sky streaked with orange and purple. The last remnants of daylight cast long, stretching shadows across the town of Red Bluff, turning the wooden buildings into dark silhouettes against the burning sky. A hush had settled over the town, an uneasy quiet that hung like a storm waiting to break.

A hot wind rolled through the main street, stirring up small swirls of dust, rattling the dry leaves caught in the cracks of the wooden sidewalks. The town’s usual sounds—the clatter of horse hooves, the distant ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer, the chatter of women outside the general store—had faded into an eerie stillness. Even the stray dog that had been sleeping near the saloon had disappeared, as if it, too, could sense what was coming.

Bishop walked down the center of the street, his spurs jingling softly with each step. His duster billowed slightly in the evening breeze, the worn leather shifting like a second skin. His hat sat low over his eyes, the brim casting a shadow across his face, but his gaze remained locked ahead. Steady. Focused.

From the porches, the townsfolk watched in silence. Men gripped the edges of their hats, pulling them lower. Women held their children close, whispering for them to stay back. The bartender from the saloon, a thick man with a greased apron, stood in the doorway, wiping a glass with slow, deliberate strokes, as if the act might distract him from what he knew was about to unfold.

Near the livery, a horse let out a nervous whinny, stomping its hooves against the dirt. The stable boy tried to soothe it, murmuring soft words, but the animal’s ears remained pinned back, nostrils flaring as though it could smell the tension in the air.

Then, from the far end of the street, Johnny Graves stepped forward.

He moved with the confidence of a man who had never feared death—perhaps because he had never truly believed in it. His long black coat was unbuttoned, revealing a blood-red shirt tucked into his gun belt, where two silver-plated revolvers rested against his hips. His fingers twitched near the grips, an unconscious motion, like a snake coiling before a strike.

Behind him, his men—three of them, rough-looking outlaws with sun-worn faces and cruel eyes—stood near the gunsmith’s shop, hands resting on their own weapons. But none of them stepped forward. This wasn’t their fight.

This was between Bishop and Graves.

The outlaw stopped about twenty paces away, tilting his head slightly, a slow smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. The fading sunlight caught on his spurs as he shifted his weight, the soft chime of metal against metal breaking the stillness.

"Well now," Graves said, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey. "Ain’t this somethin’. Two men standin’ in the middle of the street, waitin’ to see which one’s goin’ home and which one’s meetin’ the dirt."

Bishop didn’t reply. He simply stood there, the wind stirring the loose ends of his duster, his hands relaxed near his holsters.

Graves chuckled. "Ain’t much for conversation, are ya?"

Bishop let out a slow breath. "Ain’t much to say."

Graves grinned wider, taking a slow step forward. "They say you been huntin’ men like me. Callin’ yourself the fastest gun in the West. I reckon you think that means somethin’."

Bishop’s voice was quiet, but it carried through the still air. "It means you won’t be leavin’ this town with your guns still in your belt."

Graves’ smirk faltered for half a second, but it was back just as quick. He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. "You sure about that?"

Bishop’s fingers curled slightly. "As sure as I am about breathin’."

A gust of wind swept through the street, kicking up a thick swirl of dust between them. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled, its hollow chime ringing out like a countdown.

Then came the moment.

The silence stretched, tight as a drawn wire. Every heartbeat in town seemed to pause. The world shrank to just the space between the two men, the twenty paces of dry, hard-packed earth that would decide the fate of one of them.

Graves’ hand twitched.

Bishop moved.

A flash of steel. A crack of thunder.

The first shot tore through the silence, and in that instant, everything seemed to slow.

Graves’ right gun barely cleared leather before a bullet punched through his shoulder, spinning him sideways. Another shot rang out—Bishop’s second gun firing before Graves had even steadied himself. The outlaw stumbled, his left revolver clattering to the ground as another round slammed into his ribs.

He gasped, staggering backward, his knees buckling.

Bishop stood where he was, smoke curling from both barrels of his pistols. His eyes never left Graves as the outlaw collapsed to the dirt, coughing, one hand clutching at his bleeding side.

The town held its breath. Even the wind seemed to stop.

Graves lay still, his chest rising and falling in short, labored gasps. His men stood frozen, hands near their guns but unwilling to draw. They knew. They’d seen it.

They weren’t fast enough.

Bishop holstered his weapons with a slow, deliberate motion, stepping forward until he stood over the wounded outlaw. Graves’ face was pale now, his breathing ragged, his fingers twitching weakly toward his gun belt.

Bishop nudged the revolver away with his boot. "Told you," he said, his voice calm. "You weren’t fast enough."

Graves’ lips curled in a weak grin, blood staining his teeth. He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh. "Guess you were right." His fingers trembled, his body going slack.

Bishop watched him for a moment, then turned, stepping away as the town slowly came back to life. The whispers started, the movement, the sound of people exhaling, shifting.

The sheriff stepped forward, eyes scanning the scene before settling on Bishop. He let out a long breath, shaking his head.

"Wasn’t ever really a question, was it?" Silas muttered.

Bishop glanced back once. "Not for me."

He adjusted his hat, started walking. By morning, he’d be gone, riding to the next town.

Because somewhere out there, another so-called fastest gun was waiting.

And Bishop would be waiting for him.