Graham Rowat

Constable Carlin was a drunkard and a lazy man, but in his heart he was a good man.

But more importantly, no one in the town, not even one of the other constables, could out-shoot Carlin, a bag of ale that he was.

He was quick on the draw, and while there was nothing to suggest he would need that, Jacob wished he had someone who could ward these suited beasts off.

A silverman might have brandished the hooded sign and chanted prayers, but right now Carlin and his revolver would serve better than even the holiest holy man.

But Carlin was in the back room, swimming lazily in a cup of ale.

And so, all Jacob could hope for was that the brothers would leave, get up on their dead-eyed horses, and go haunt another town.

Slick, Slaughter, Savage, and Sully seemed completely oblivious to Jacob's terror.

Such was the awful blankness in their faces that they seemed oblivious of everything.

Eyes were supposed to be windows into a man's head.

These windows were boarded up and perhaps never opened.

Finally, Slaughter placed down his cup, another smear of the oily substance on its handle.

His brothers followed suit.

Relief bloomed in Jacob, but just for a moment.

Just a moment of sweeping relief that went away when Slake spoke next.

Then, a long arm raised, meaty fingers clutching a six-shooter.

Messrs.

Slick, Slaughter, Savage, and Sully all grinned one awful, yellow smile.

Jacob tried to scream, but nothing came out but a low moan.

The revolver fired a single bullet of charity, and Jacob's head came apart, splattering everything around him.

The four brothers were untouched by the red droplets, which slid off of them easily.