His palms itched. They always itched before the draw.
Energy pulsed through him with every tick and tock of the clocktower. Never had he been so close to victory as he was now. Countless years spent trying to find the man who moved from place to place like a ghost, riding upon a pale horse that left no tracks save for corruption and death.
Even through the screen of grit the wind kicked up between them, he could feel the cold gaze of his enemy and see the dark shine of his eyes. None who met the gaze of the last Horseman had ever lived to tell of it. He would be the first.
Tick… tock… tick… tock…
The clock struck seven. Bells rang. Time slowed down as he drew the pistols that hung at his hips. A roar that dwarfed thunder cracked the silence of the night. The dust began to settle.
And as the black eyes that had haunted his dreams and worn at his soul for so long closed shut, he knew that even Death could die.