From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.
April 21, 1930.
Who he was and why he shot at me, I will never know.
I must confess, however, that I do not care either.
The man opened fire at me from a concealed position, his rounds well-placed and close enough to crease the folds of my coat. It took me nearly an hour to work out where he was and then to out-flank him.
But I did it.
I had no sympathy when I found him. No pity for him either. I emptied the cylinders of each Colt into the man, and had I not needed the rounds for later, I would have reloaded and shot him again.
I have no love for sharpshooters.
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