As the man's hand brisked his trousers, Codgett drew his gun and fired twice.

The man jolted as each bullet slammed into his chest, and then he fell to the ground.

Returning to the saloon, Codgett sat down at his former seat, at the rear-most table, in the chair facing the saloon's entrance.

The crowd that had gathered outside to gawk and gander, slowly splintered, and the greater part returned to the saloon.

Riza split her buckskin jacket, tossed it onto the seat of the chair next to Codgett, and then sat down. "Can't stand splinters." she said. "I can ride a mile on a cactus, but never could stand cheap furniture. My name is Riza. I know who you are."

Codgett remained focused on the empty shot glass in front of him. He placed both index fingers and thumbs on either side of the glass and turned it over.

"There's a cure for that," said Riza. She motioned to the bartender, who brought over two shot glasses of whiskey. Grabbing the one closest to her, she held it in the air. She spoke in a rhythmic, almost musical tone, "Here's to the cowpokes, one lesser there be; and the dead one outside, leaves more whiskey for me!"

A faint smile stretched one side of Codgett's face, the side that was hidden from Riza.

Riza said, "A smile won't kill ya. Live fat and die like a big, fat pig -- that's my motto. Least I won't die hungry. And if ya can settle old scores before ya go, all the merrier -- which reminds me, today's Christmas. Merry one to ya."

Codgett looked briefly at Riza, and then back at the full glass of whiskey. "Everyone dies hungry, hungry for another chance, hungry for peace, or just hungry for one spit of mercy into their piss-bucket life."

"That cowpoke you shot done drank his last meal, all last night and today. He wasn't feeling nothin', least of all hunger."

"I've always wondered if they feel it," said Codgett.

"Feel what? Hunger? Or the piss of mercy? Mercy be damned, Christmas or not."

"No. Death. The dying. Do you ever wonder what that last moment's like? I always hoped that God would spare a man his last moments if he were to die violent. Like, you go to another place at that last moment."

"He doesn't spare us before that, why would he spare us then?"

Codgett started slowly rotating his shot glass. "I dunno. Just a prayer, I guess. I'll die hungry, hungry for another chance; a chance to do something right, be like honest folk."

Riza downed her whiskey, and then slapped the empty glass on the table. "I know your reputation. I'd bet a thousand would like to be you. Nobody'd even charge you for a drink. That reminds me." She motioned to the bartender, who brought over another shot. She spoke curtly to the bartender, "Put it on Codgett's tab." The bartender fractured a quick glance at Codgett for affirmation, afraid to look the killer directly in the eye; then returned sheepishly to the bar.

Staring directly into Riza's eyes, Codgett stated coldly, "Killing ain't killing no more; I just don't feel it. It's like steppin' on ants. Maybe as a kid you felt bad when you killed your first bug, but the more you kill, the more they seem to annoy you. Soon, you just shoot anything that annoys you, including people. Then, just 'cause you're feeling mean or 'cause someone laughed at the wrong time. If you're any good at it, you get to live longer, and you make money at it. Then, killing is just like a rooster crowin' only because the sun came up at that moment. Like that cowpoke dead outside, think he felt it -- the last moment -- his body shaking as I plugged him?"

Riza's eyes narrowed, and she spoke in a serious tone, "Killin' ain't killin' when it's the right folks; people who deserves to die."

"I keep having this dream where someone I killed, someone I shot in the back, says that he has something for me, something that's mine. Then he starts to hand me something, but I can't see what it is. That's where the dream always ends."

"Ordinarily, I'd say too much whiskey. In this case, I'd have to say too little." Riza pushed Codgett's glass closer to him. "Whiskey's made for dreamless sleep, just like bullets."

"I'd like to start all over again; another chance, another chance at life."

Riza observed dispassionately, "All ya need is to die first."

A tall figure parted the doors of the saloon, standing stiff as a Slavic gargoyle. He was dressed in black, and silhouetted by the light of day outside as if he had been a blackness carved into the heart of the sun itself.

Codgett raised his head and looked at the man. Riza turned to see what Codgett was looking at, and then back at Codgett. She spoke softly, "I'm guessin' you might get your chance."

The man entered the saloon and spoke slowly in a thunderous baritone, "Codgett! I've got something that belongs to you."

"What?" asked Codgett in an icy tone, as he slowly reached for his revolver.

The man looked Codgett straight in the eye from across the saloon in a defiant challenge, and replied, "A bullet."

Riza overturned the table as she stood and drew her pistol. Codgett rose and fired at the figure in black until his pistol was empty.

The man of black didn't move.

Codgett looked around. He and the black specter were the only ones in the saloon. The rest had vanished, although he hadn't seen anyone leave.

The dark phantom walked towards Codgett and handed him a small object. "That," the phantom said, "is the bullet you killed me with two Christmases ago."

"I killed you? Who are you? What happened to that woman with the buckskin?" asked Codgett.

The phantom replied, "Riza? She's the one that shot you dead. It was her brother you saw in the dream, the one you shot in the back -- me!"

THE END