My Hero by Tom Holt

with it ever since. Firearms made him nervous, and rawhide brought him out in a little pimply rash. He was absolutely terrified of horses.
    Nevertheless. The face in the window had got to him, somehow, and it was time he showed the evil sucker who was boss around here. He strapped the gunbelt round his waist - it took some doing; Wild Bill evidently didn’t believe in regular meals and starchy foods - lifted the gun out, lifted the catch to check it was empty, and slid it back into the holster.
    â€˜You’re slow, Slim,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re so slow I could call you, listen to the third act of Lohengrin , and still blow your fucking head off. Okay?’
    Sheer hatred flickered across the eyes in the window, and suddenly Skinner was very afraid, although what of, exactly, he didn’t know. Of its own accord, his hand went to the gun on his hip. The reflection in the glass did likewise, as reflections are wont to do . . .
    BANG!
    There was a hole in the glass, surrounded by concentric circles of shatter-marks, like the web of a slovenly spider. The reflection was looking down at his shirt-front.
    Reckon you’ve killed me, Skinner.You gonna be sorry you done that.
    Skinner looked at the window, and then at the gun in his hand. A little curl of grey smoke drifted out of the tiny gap between the cylinder and the barrel.
    â€˜Hey!’ he said. ‘The gun wasn’t loaded.’
    The hell it wasn’t, pard. Leastways, this side of the glass it was loaded pretty darn good.

    â€˜Gee, Slim, I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . .’
    Like I done said, Skinner.You gonna be real sorry.
    The figure in the glass slumped and slid down under the windowsill. Instinctively, Skinner stepped forward, and . . .
    And fell over a body.
    â€˜Neat draw, mister.’
    Skinner looked down at the corpse at his feet, and then realised. The voice had come from the gun.
    â€˜Did you just say something?’
    â€˜I said, neat draw. I exaggerated.’
    â€˜Hey . . .’
    â€˜I thought, it’s the guy’s first time, he needs his confidence boosting. Actually, if it hadn’t been for me you’d have blown a hole right through the five-day clock.’
    Skinner looked round. He was on Main Street; not Main Street, Chicopee Falls, but generic, industry-standard Main Street; and, as the specification requires, a man in a black hat on a second-floor balcony across the way was aiming a rifle at him.
    BANG!
    And, as the specification insists, the man in the black hat, now deceased, fell forwards through the balcony rail, which collapsed like balsa wood around him. The sound he made as he hit the ground was a sort of lazy thump, like a windfall apple.
    â€˜Now that was a neat draw, I gotta hand it to you.’
    â€˜Hey, you!’ Skinner screeched. ‘Cut that out, you hear me?’
    â€˜That’s gratitude for you,’ grumbled the Scholfield.
    â€˜Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking your finger off my trigger, you’re choking me.’
    It occurred to Skinner that at this juncture it might be politic to run away and hide behind something.
    Having done so (something turning out to be the door
of the livery stable; there were horses in there somewhere, but they didn’t seem inclined to bother him), he sat down on a pile of hay and did a bit of violent trembling. It didn’t help much, but he knew what was expected of him.
    â€˜Are you planning on sitting there all day? Because I don’t know about you, but I need a good clean and a shot of oil. You’d better put the kettle on.’
    â€˜Kettle?’
    â€˜You have to flush me out with boiling water, otherwise I rust. I’d have thought you’d have known that.’
    â€˜Hey.’ Skinner closed his eyes. ‘Have you got any idea what’s happening to me?’ he asked.
    â€˜Sure.’
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜Boiling water. A drop of Rangoon oil, if you’ve got it