From the silence, a single, hesitant voice rang out. “H-Hey Quentin…how’s the shootin’ been?” It came from a man seated at the end of the bar. This was followed by silence, as everyone turned to Quentin Flint to gauge his reaction.

Nothing.

The man seated at the end of the bar grew braver. “Heh. Hey Quentin, you miss a shot lately? Like, say, the broad side of a barn?” Others began to shout out similar jibes.

The insults were soon drowned out by the mocking laughter and cat-calls of the other saloon-goers. Men abandoned their liquor and cards to join in the heckling. Ted the Barman paused his incessant wiping down of the bar to smile. Piano Joe, of course, did nothing, as he was dead, but he likely would have enjoyed the jeering immensely.

No one heard the hammer cock, but they did hear the gunshot.

And they did see the man seated at the end of the bar suddenly slump forward and slide off the barstool, hitting the floor with an unceremonious thump.

Quentin still didn’t miss. Most of the time.