your very own showdown

Cowboy Man said "Horse Time!"

He was dressed his way. Hat, 
chaps and all - with a gunbelt 
slung akimbo and a steely 

eye 

fixing yours in a shadowy light. 
In a gravelly voice he said: 

"Horse Time!" 

You didn't know what it meant. 

You wanted to ask if it meant 
you won't get shot? A race, 
maybe - or equestrian event, 
capering and such? Or just 

get out of town? "Horse Time?" 

So you moseyed over to the crowd, 
asked "What does Cowboy Man 
mean when he says Horse Time?" 

The grizzled old miner you asked 
flinched and spat. "Who are you? 
Quit chatting up miners - are you 
a pervert? Get lost!" 

Your look of pained dismay swept 
those present, pointedly except 
Cowboy Man. Won't somebody 
help? Your eyes said. Pled.

The biggest whore in town
- 6'3"
roughly two-thirty
of burly lithe musculature
in a frame that to all reports
just won't quit - took 

pity. 

"Why don't you ask him? Cowboy 
Man is sad you ask everyone but 
him." You looked back and over. 

She was right. 

"Hell, Cowboy Man I'm sorry. 
What do you mean by 'Horse 
Time'?" 

His sad glare tightened to transfix 
your soul. His hand 

had a gun in it

suddenly empty, and you
were full of just enough lead
and life left to get hurt
one more time
as you hit,

exhaled,
expired.

Died. 

"Horse Time!" the crowd 
all yelled.