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In every cloud of dust, in every approaching horse and in every flapping door, Sundown Kid always half-expected him to be there. Just appear, he supposed, with that crap-eating grin of his. And, for every cloud of dust and approaching horse and flapping door where Sundown Kid turned and he wasn't there, the gun on his waist weighted uncomfortably.
Like two sweethearts, he had said they were. Sundown Kid disagreed—more like two actors on a stage, playing a story that couldn't go on anymore because one of its lead actors was missing. He held a gun to his deuteragonist's head and realized too late it was actually loaded. They drew the curtains close, and Sundown was left alone on a stage with no one to play off of, with an audience that had never mattered waiting for his next big act, never once realizing that staged death wasn't staged, wasn't meant to happen—
Sundown Kid pulled the reigns and brought his horse to a halt—a Saloon had popped into existence in his peripheral view. Just in time too; three or four mugs of tequila would do him good. He was getting dangerously close to missing that bastard.