W E S L E Y. H A R R I N G T O N.
A sudden darkness falls upon the tombstone. Someone--or something--stands above me. I do not lift myself up. I do not raise my eyes. I remain on my brittle knees, hands to the earth. Bowed and beaten. It's time for a reckoning.
"I been a rough man," I whisper.
If I was expectin' a reply, I do not get one.
"A rough man, livin' them rough man ways."
Winds whip into a frenzy. Dust and dirt swirl in the air, filling my mouth, filling my nose, filling my lungs. I spit at the ground, as if expellin' the sins of my life.
"I'm a rough man!" I offer one last defiant time.
Then silence. And calm.
And the click of a six shooter, readying itself.