Mature Content: No.

With: Pronto
Location: Away from town, cafe
Time of Day: Afternoon.

The Smith and Wesson Russians cleared leather in a heartbeat, both belching fire and lead at the targets tacked to the log. Playing cards cut in half served as the intended measure of his accuracy. Twelve shots, twelve targets, twelve hits.

The roaring of the gunfire stopped, the haze of smoke slowly drifted up and away as both pistols were empty. Pike opened the cylinder catch which popped the spent cartridges out when the barrels fell forward. Pike tucked one under his arm to replace one with fresh ones, then the other. Once reloaded, each was dropped back in their respective holsters.

He studied the target cards, not pleased with his first gun handling since being wounded, and it was getting late in the month, the cold was beginning to set in at night, and that meant the possibility of snow should the temperatures drop suddenly, and rain should make an appearance. But real snow wouldn’t hit until December. Yet rains had washed away any trace of the trail he might have used to trail the man who shot him. He would look anyway.

For the next hour he drew and fired, reloaded, changed target cards and saw steady improvement in his accuracy. Speed of the draw was fine, but accuracy was everything in a real fight. Targets didn’t shoot back. By the time he cleaned up the loose brass and the perforated cards he was quite pleased. The arm was a bit sore, but that was to be expected as it had been favored for sometime during the healing process.

He mounted up turning the Hammerhead Roan toward town thinking he would stop at the café for coffee and maybe a bite of lunch.