143 - fuel

oots deliberately clunking down on the old wooden floor broke the silence. Little clouds of dust erupted from the floorboards with each step, hanging in the air for a brief moment, before slowly drifting back down to the floor.

Don carefully swept his eyes across the dusty old saloon. When he had last been in town, this place was always overflowing with energy, tomfoolery, and trouble.

He thought it was empty now. Then, he caught his eyes. Looks like this only thing left here was trouble.

The figure seated at the bar was so dusty-brown that he blended in with the surroundings. Natural saloon camouflage, something any greenhorn running away from trouble would give his left arm for. Only the whites of his eyes gave him away. He knew by now that Don had noticed his presence, and grinned a devilish grin.

Nothing about his teeth would take away from his ability to blend in with the grime of this place, Don thought.

"Looking for your choir, preacher?" the man seated at the bar asked.

"Well, Logan, the question did arise in my mind, I must admit. So, where is everyone?" Don asked.

Logan chuckled. "They're dead. All dead. I killed them."

The expression on Don's faced remained stoic and unchanged. "Everyone?"

The figure at the bar took a quick sip from the drink in front of him while nodding slightly. He held his grin as he spoke his answer, "Every man, woman, and child. Yup." He made a gun with his index finger and thumb, and imitated a gunshot.

"It wasn't really that hard, either. Just started on the outskirts after nightfall and worked my way toward Main Street here. Of course, I didn't really shoot 'em. Not most of them, anyway. Too noisy. A lot of slit throats, a few smotherings. You'd have been proud, I think."

Don pulled a barstool out and took a seat, giving himself a buffer of a few stools between Logan and himself. He reached his arm behind the bar and grabbed a glass and a bottle of something. It didn't matter what.

"Yeah, proud. Real proud," he said as he uncapped the bottle and filled his glass. In a moment, he downed it. He then refilled his glass, and screwed the cap back onto the bottle slowly.

Logan leaned toward him, still grinning. "Come on, Don, did you ever really think you could put what happened in Barstow behind you? We had a deal then, and just because you had a change of heart, that doesn't mean you could walk away from it all."

Don smirked at Logan's comments. "You always could weave an amazing tapestry of bullshit when it suited you, Logan. I held up my end of the bargain, and did as I said I would. It's not my fault that you got in too deep for yourself."

Logan had no reply, but his grin got slightly larger as he leaned back into his barstool and took another sip of his drink.

"So, that's it, then?" Don asked.

"Well," Logan pretended to hesitate, "there is still one piece of unfinished business."

Unbeknownst to Don, Logan had a revolver hidden under his poncho and fixed upon him from the moment he had entered the saloon. He felt the trigger with his finger. It was his non-dominant hand, but at this range, there was no way he could miss.

"Funny you should mention that, as I'm feeling the same way," Don replied.

After taking a seat at the bar, Don had worked his own revolver slowly out of its holster. Every move he made, every sip of his drink that he took, was all just sleight of hand to move his firearm into position.

A gunshot rang out. The man at his side slumped over.