8John Wesley sat at a table in the cantina drinking tequila neat. Positioning his chair to face the open door, he had his legs stretched out in front of him, hat tipped over his eyes, his revolver already drawn and lying on his lap.
He'd found Maria dead in the small outhouse, a single bullet-hole between her eyes – eyes which, even in death, were so beautiful. For one of the few times in his adult life, he sobbed at the sight of death… at the sight of her.
They'd come for him like they always did – cowards, in the night. He'd shot and killed two of them, but the third had somehow managed to slip round the back. It was this remaining assailant for whom he now waited, knowing he would come. They always came, to chance their luck and kill the renowned gunfighter, John Wesley Hardin.
Maria
