The sheriff sauntered toward the dark farmhouse with his thumbs in his gun-belt. He looked over one shoulder, then the other, at the rows of armed men who had accompanied him as his posse. The sun was setting behind them, which made them look tall and grim. The sheriff liked that.

“I know you only have one six-shooter,” he called out. He ran a finger over his black mustache. “There’s nine of us out here. With six shots, you know we’ll win in the end.”

There was a short laugh from the farmhouse. “Gettin’ fancy with the math, sheriff? Well, as it happens, I ain’t so bad at math, myself. Let’s see. There’s nine of you, and I have six bullets. That means three of you will be left. So each of you has a one-in-three chance of getting out of here alive.” A slim figure stepped out the door and slouched against the frame, one hand on his holstered pistol. “Who wants to try their luck?”