[ WP ] `` six bullets , more than enough to kill anything that moves . ''

I ca n't sharp shoot for shit. 
 
 Most gunknights ca n't. 
 
 It's a popular myth. The kind people like to propagate at shitty bars, drinking cheap whiskey. The kind that go gettin' ideas into people's heads. Powerful ideas. Ideas about how great their shot is. About maybe trackin' down one of them so called knights and giving'em their hangman's dime. Square in their chest. Maybe earnin' themselves a reputation and a gunknight's iron. Dumb ideas. 
 
 It's the kind of myth fools and bastards like to listen to. 
 
 In short, the kind that get gunknights killed 
 
 Suppose it's the kind that convinced the Walkers to kick up dust and ride out after me into the Falkhills'neath that overripe fruit of a settin' sun. The kind that's likely, finally brought death and his sixshooters to the edge of my fire's light. 
 
 Did a good job of out ridin' the sonuvabitch for a spell. 
 
 Walkers caught up with me in the ravine. I should n't have been there really but I did n't think anyone in town knew I was up there. Should have known better. Word spreads quicker than sand this far out in the dust. Not much else goin' round. 
 
 They must have had a powerful stupid in their heads to follow me up there. The Falkhills ai n't exactly a pleasant place to be at the best of times, but I was there trackin' a Wolfblooded on the Thrice-Queen's orders. Were n't no pup they'd sent me after either, if the gory mess of a farmstead it had savaged just east of the hills was any indicator. If they'd found it before me... well, this story'd be playin' out a whole lot different and better for me. 
 
 To their credit though, they were right. No sign of the wolfblooded. Only me deep in the ravine, settin' up for moonrise by the creek, not expectin' riders carefully positioned on the east and west ridges to start rainin' down iron and smoke. 
 
 The first shot rang out somewhere to my right. A heavy whisp of dirt kicked up as it fell into the ground. The second went straight through my right leg and out again. Third killed my horse. Straight through the skull. 
 
 Fuckers killed my horse. 
 
 She fell in the bank and slid into the creek and more bullets came down hard and quick. I dropped low and threw myself behind a boulder. Pulled my back up sharp against it, drawing my iron. 
 
 A gunknight's iron. The thing they'd come to pry from me. 
 
 I thought about that. About the feel of its black metal. Cold in my palm despite the heat of the setting sun. Thought about how I'd earned it, and the title Gunknight. How the Thrice-Queen had chosen me to live and die for her red throne. Thought about my training. Thought about all the things I'd hunted across the dust with it. About the things and people I'd killed. About how many lives the iron had taken, not just the ones by bullet. Thought about my life, or at least what I'd had that came close. Thought about *her*. 
 
 Thought about how I'd be damned before I met death and his six shooter by the edge of my camp because of some Walkers. I was n't exactly sure how many there were, but judging by their bullet spread I was thinking maybe eight or ten. Spread out mostly on the west ridge, a few on the east. Might be they had more waiting outside the ravine's lip, should I slip out. But I doubted it. Walkers ai n't ever been known for forethought. They're mostly rotten meat and whiskey, the possessed shells of dead outlaws and thieves. Pried from the ground by demons and rounded into a gang on account of larger numbers bein' harder for gunknights to kill. 
 
 I tried gettin' a better look at the ridge but a bullet ricocheted off the rock so close to me that it sent stone shavings into my eye. They had me good and proper. Somewhere further back in the hills a sound like a slab of meat being torn echoed down to our little party. 
 
 The wolfblooded. 
 
 The bullets stopped. 
 
 I gave it a test, looking out around the rock. No bullet ricocheting off the stone. No hangman's dime placed square between my brows. Somewhere nearer than before the wolfblooded howled again, sonic claws rending the quiet flesh of moonrise. 
 
 I saw one of the Walkers looking back out of the ridge, towards the Falkhills. Towards the wolfblooded headin' our way. Saw him lower his rifle. 
 
 `` Feel like dyin' tonight?'' 
 
 None of them answered. Voice boxes might have decomposed by now. Depends how long ago they'd been possessed. How well they'd managed to avoid ridin' through the sun hours. 
 
 `` Because, between me.'' I leant back and threw my voice up and over, to the west ridge some more. `` And the wolfblooded headin' our way, that's where y'all are headin'.'' 
 
 I heard one of them swear, starting arguing in hellspeak. 
 
 `` *Lykun Sangwyn? *'' 
 
 I flicked my wrist, opening up my iron's chamber. Saw the pretty six sittin' neat and ready in their chambers. *Six*. 
 
 `` That's right fuckers. *Lykun Sangwyn*.'' 
 
 Somewhere above the east ridge there was the sound of roots being pulled up, wood shattered. Hard and heavy paws and a roar again. Something back further in the hills answered. A few more to the west. More again in the hills. 
 
 I swore. `` A pack.'' 
 
 I knew the Walkers would be panicking. Takes them a lot to claw their way to the mortal dust and sand. Suspected they were n't keen on the prospect of a wolfblooded pack tearing their shells apart. They knew their odds were dropping in this fight. I knew mine. 
 
 I flicked the chamber on my shooter back shut. Drew the hammer back and watched the moonlight glint off the words the Thrice-Queen had etched into the handle. 
 
 `` I'd recommend y'all start kickin' up dust, Walkers. Sounds like a big pack, least a dozen and I've got a full chamber of silver here. Six bullets sittin' nice and ready for you or them. You get to decide which they're gunna go to.'' 
 
 No response. A few bullets in the soil around my rock. The awful sound of the pack drawing nearer, the click of death drawing his own hammer back and stepping closer to my fire. 
 
 `` Six bullets.'' 
 
 I brought myself up onto my feet. Tried to ignore the pain shooting up through my leg where they'd hit me. 
 
 `` More than enough to kill anything that moves.'' 
 
 *But not everything. *
