Pammy Barnum wasn’t always a killer, least, not an active one. Never shot anyone in the time I knew her, and I knew her from when she was three. Oh, but she knew how to shoot. Her daddy saw to that.

“I seen enough nonsense and bad folk out there that there ain’t no way any child o’mine ain’t gonna know her way around a firearm,” was what he always said.

He’s dead nine years today, but his daughter’s out there putting those skills to use. Bullseye Barnum is what they’re calling her these days, and while I know the stories are tall, you don’t get a nickname like that by refusing a fight. Drunkards may lie, but corpses don’t, and the bodies are saying she’s closing in.

I’m closing in too, but every day that passes I know the girl I know is going away forever. And as each day ends I lay awake knowing I’m too late.