Duel

I opened the blinds just in time to watch the evening sunlight
drag himself in through the window, breathing heavily and
clutching at his chest. He crawled in, bleeding orange and red
all over the floor, the books, the sheets, and collapsed against
the wall. He looked at me with dull eyes, then back to the window.
He was sliding further and further into a slouch, his head resting
on his shoulder. "I ain't got much time," he said as he fumbled to
grab a six-shooter from his holster. I offered to help, asked if he
would like some water. "No, kid," he grumbled, "I have to do this
myself." I stood there quietly with him for a few minutes, in awe
of the ragged leather duster, the bullet-riddled ten gallon hat.
He kept his eyes set on the horizon outside the window. "You
don't reckon' she'll ever leave me be, do you, son?" He said, eyes
still rooted in the distance. I didn't answer, couldn't answer. I just
watched as his eyes widened. His grip slackened on his pistol. Then
his parched lips curled into a devilish grin. A buckshot of stars
exploded through the window and the old gunslinger slumped over.
Thin lines of crimson light dripped down the wall, the bed, the floor,
and finally trickled in slow drops over the white windowpane.