I weren’t nothing but a kid but I ain’t forgot him. Never will. Not ‘till the day I die. He killed them all. ‘Cept me. I hid under the stairs of Miss Maggie’s bed house, blood soaking through the slats from a killed woman whose disrepute bled out all over me.
He rode in on a hazy Sunday afternoon. His horse had half his face scraped off and his teeth were bared, brown and awful. The gunslinger didn’t look much better. Skin peeling off his body and his head buzzing with flies. Them both risen outta some month old grave. People that seen him screamed and ran. And he just dropped ’em. He walked through and shot any person that stood against him. He was the judge from hell. Collecting on sins that they thought was secret. But he knew about ’em. Brave boys full of whiskey lay dead in the road. The bullets ripped right through him but he jes kept comin’ and no one escaped but me.
And when he was done, he took his prize. Like the Indians taking their scalps, but he took worse. He ate the insides of them heads. Took his time, too. Fed his horse the same and rode out of town slow through the moonlight. I ain’t never seen or heard of him since.