"I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.

I aim with my eye.

I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.

I shoot with my mind.

I do not shoot with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father.

I kill with my heart."

....I do not aim with my feet; he who aims with his feet has forgotten the face of his father.

I aim with my soul.

I do not shoot with my wrath; he who shoots with his wrath has forgotten the face of his father.

I shoot with my dignity.

Since the world moved on, men sometimes found themselves needing to be moved.

One such man moved no more.

What passed as whiskey slid from the dirty glass and down the throat of the saloon's newest patron. He placed his still-warm revolver on the scarred wood of the table and he grimaced at the blank expressions looking back at him. Relaxing in his chair, he stared at his audience.

A few lanterns hung from hooks above the tables, and the firelight from the hearth cast what should have been a warm glow across the room. The smells of a spicy stew, the sour scent of homebrew, and the coppery crimson odor of violence all mixed to create an altogether unwelcoming atmosphere.

His gaze swept across every man and woman in the bar, and each pair of eyes turned away from his own. One girl even made the sign of the cross, and he could hear the whispered prayer to the Manjesus.

Silence, except for the crackle of logs from across the saloon, was the only other sound.

He spoke softly.

“I’ve done what I came here to do. This man did what he came here to do.”

With that, he kicked the corpse on the floor.

“The killing is done, and you’re better for it."

The air was still.

"I’ll soon be leaving.”

A lone voice, barely more than a whisper, responded: “Thankee-sai.”

Stony faces and sad eyes turned away from the Gunslinger, and he poured himself another drink.

His hand almost didn’t shake when he reloaded his Big Iron, but no one seemed to notice.

He thought it would get easier, but the weight of every soul he sent on still threatened to crush him down more firmly to this earth, even as it spun beneath him.

It was an odd thing, that.

Even as he felt pressed, even as he felt held down by each drop of blood he shed, he knew that the world was moving on, but he wasn’t.

He was being held in place, frozen in a time the world had left behind.

The Gunslinger left a silver coin on the table when he finished the bottle.

Calmly, he walked out into the night, continuing pursuit of the man in black.