I stand erect, facing forward with courage, sweat dripping from my brow beneath the harsh sun. My feet press against the hard-packed dirt; I am unmoved by the prairie winds gusting now and again then stopping, listening, waiting. My eyes are closed slightly against the glare, my shoulders tense but straight, arms at my sides, my hand on the too-cold metal, my finger a hair's breadth from the trigger. In the holster, the gun sits waiting, ready for its only purpose, the rusty exterior a mask for the bright death inside. One round in the chamber, a single shot and it is over, whether I hit or miss, am hit or missed. Riveted to that place in that moment, a moment which has gone on forever and will end suddenly and painfully, I face bright eyes, pained eyes. We wait, ignoring catcalls and jeers and jibes and encouragements, wondering who will first pull forth thunder and end this stalemate, wondering if it's possible to move a hand away from death and walk away or come together, both determined not to fire unless being fired upon, both determined to draw second and face death rather than gun down something once beautiful. Once, laughing, we dodged bullets, pretending they weren't death, pretending they were a game. Now, we are but a flick of the wrist, a rise of the arm and a contraction of the finger away from meaning it. I can feel it already. Standing here, in the heat and wavering light, I don't know whether I will draw and fire, or whether I will make a sharp movement of the body but of the hand intentionally slow, or whether I am already dead. The sweat beads and flows into my eyes, clouding my vision; all I can see is red and brown and grey, and green, from long ago, and sometime soon again. One way or another, life continues.