text: “You will take 12 paces and turn”. The referee paused and looked to both men to ensure he had their attention. “Upon turning you may fire when the flag I hold hits the ground. As per the agreement this is a duel to the death and you may continue to fire until only one is left standing.” The referee realised the folly of such words but tradition dictated he say his passage. “Do you understand gentlemen?”. Alfred and Franklin both turned their heads to the referee and nodded their acceptance at the rules and the understanding that this was a duel to the death. The referee continued, “If either man fires before the flag hit the grounds...” A voice called from the crowd “We know the rules grand master pomp, take your rules shove em up your arse and give us the blood we came for, let them have at it!” The referee twitched as he always did when his ceremony was interrupted, none the less he acquiesced and once again noticed his life was to please the hoards. “Very well. Gentlemen you may begin the walk.” One. Alfred took his first step. In 16 years he had fought and won 53 duels, some for honour, some for fun but all for power. Now only Franklin stood in his way of being the greatest duelist in the land of Seackhan and with that came the fame, fortune and power that make a man grow old and fat. Maybe he would grow old and fat but today he only wanted his guns. His trigger finger twitched, it knew it would soon have to the pull the ring one final time, the hardest time, but his legacy demanded it. Two. Franklin’s right foot moved like a club hammer to its second step. His knee’s felt weak, his guts a wreathing mess of nerves and terror. It was not the duel he feared but his hands that wielded a gun. His father had taught him to shoot before he could walk and by the time he could walk he was already on the path of the duelist. He had vowed after his last duel 10 years ago to never lift a gun again but then Alfred had walked back into his life. Now he found himself taking the walk of the duelist, readying for the dance of the gunslinger one final time. Three. Alfred felt stronger with every step. His guns light on his hips, his mind focussed on the dot he envisioned between Franklin’s eyes. Franklin, the one everyone said could shoot the eye of an eagle from a hundred paces, Franklin the merciful who gave quarter to his opponents, Franklin the coward who had thrown his guns down because he could not walk the path of the duelist. Everywhere he went they spoke of Franklin, after today they would speak of him, Alfred Dead Eye. Four. Franklin stuttered, he was back in the town of Faldago staring at the face of a mere boy who lay dying with a gunshot to the neck. Franklin had missed, the boy should be dead and the ritual complete. He watched as the life flowed from the body of the dying duelist into his own, slowly the boys eyes became glass, the chest moved slower, the breath left his body and finally the twitching ceased. Franklin stared at the face of the boy and then turned to see the streaked face of a girl, the boys lover he guessed. He turned back to the boy and for the first time ever found himself repulsed. Five. “When you kill a man, you do it fast and you do it straight”. They were the words of Alfred’s father but Alfred had learnt there is no killing fast or straight, only killing. People have these notions of honour and chivalry. Fools, all of them, Alfred thought. What honour is there blowing a man’s head open? No, the path of the duelist is not honourable or chivalrous and there is no room for love or kin. The path of the duelist is a path of power. Today, Alfred thought, that power will be mine. Six: Franklin’s mind lurched again, back to the time when he had won his guns. The gun, it is said, picks its owner and the gun can be wielded by no other until it is won. Franklin knew this not to be true, he had not won his guns, he had taken them. He had set out on the long walk, him and five companions set to find their guns as apprentice duelists were sent to do. Those that returned with their guns would be deemed duelists, those that did not would be set to go on the great wander. Franklin returned a duelist Seven: Alfred seethed with hatred, for 16 years he had wandered. He had won his dueling guns in the first year, using common pistols he had shot an old slinger who thought he could still duel, he had his dueling guns. In the second year he made his name, by the tenth year he was accepted as one of the great duelists. Now, today, in this moment, he would win the guns that belonged to him. Franklin the great? Franklin the robber more like. Alfred steadied his finger, he steadied his mind. He took another step. Eight: Franklin saw the guns at the same time as Alfred, they both saw the guns. They hung in the air as only unclaimed dueling guns do and they called to their owner. Alfred was faster, more adept and more determined to claim the guns. Franklin was slow, hesitant but he feared the wander, more he feared his father. He unslung his bow, nocked his arrow and followed the motion of Alfred. He asked Alfred for forgiveness and let the arrow loose. Alfred fell from his horse and Franklin rode past to claim the guns. Nine: Alfred’s father looked at him, shame in his eyes. For generations the family had all been duelists, none set for the long wander. Alfred protested he had been robbed but his father said the gun chooses not the person. “You wander now boy, you find the path, you find your honour and maybe one day you can return.” Alfred looked at his father but no forgiveness was there, only a hard stare that set him on his way. Ten: For ten years Franklin had not dueled. He vowed to never consume the life force from another duelist ever again, to never stare at the face of pain again and to never take that which was not his to take. The guns felt heavy on his hips, his finger was moist, his breathing ragged. Now Alfred had come, Franklin always knew he would. In 6 years as a duelist he had slain 35 people but none of them were Alfred. The guns called to Alfred, the guns compelled Franklin to answer. Eleven: Alfred stared at the people in front of him, did they remember who he was? He looked for his fathers face in the crowd but knew he would not find it. He had heard he died but two years after he was set to wandering, a drunken brawl, it sounded fitting to Alfred. Alfred heard the clink of Franklin’s boot, time to duel. Twelve: The final step was all Franklin needed, he was a killer. He senses heightened and his palms dried. I am prepared to die, I am prepared to kill, the gun is me and I am the gun. His finger twitched, it itched. He was ready to kill. The duelists turned, the flag dropped, the brothers fired.