Make them fear the very sight of you!
THE GUN MASTER
Not even the thunder of the guns could drown out the awful thud of the body as it hit the dirt. Fisher’s Death Street ran red with blood — real blood. And the upstart standing there in the deepening twilight with smoking guns in his hands was suddenly a genuine killer.
Which was how Sam Fisher wrote it later in his pokey little office at the Star with a printing press clattering on one side of him and a drunken compositor singing a song about a brave gunfighter on the other.
It was a good story, but Alf Stubbs edited the part about Wes Doone being a killer.
“He’s a gunfighter and a hero now, Sam,” he stated flatly. “He fought by the code and he won, so folks look on him as a hero — just like his father.”
“I watched. I didn’t see anything heroic about it.”
“Maybe not, but heroes sell newspapers. There are good men and bad men. Long as the good man wins, everybody’s happy.”
“I guess so,” Fisher said, heading downstairs. “Heroes . . . folks don’t know what the word means anymore!”