Gunfight

It was a nuisance, the piece of gravel between his teeth and upper lip. He’d beaten the man to the draw, saw where the bullet hit, the fatality of its effect. Funny thing, he’d looked down to see how he’d tripped and only saw the clean polished shine of his black boots in the white gravel of the street as he fell. His tooth was broken, he felt it crack as his face smashed against the ground. He tried to spit the piece of grit out but couldn’t. Down the street he could see his foe being picked up and loaded in the back of a wagon. He joined him there, the stone still between his shattered tooth and bloodied lip.