Ten paces... The world slows down.

One. I think of the clock: Twelve noon. I take a breath and close my eyes.

Two. My eyes open, the sun glaring down on the dusty lane. My face remains still, emotionless.

Three. I feel a gust of wind on my side, and watch a tumbleweed cross my path.

Four. My eyes shift. Barrels on my right, and a big box to my left. It's closer than the barrels.

Five. I look on the porch of a store. My wife stands in watch.

Six. My side chafes, and my holster feels as if it weighs a ton.

Seven. I swallow, my vision becomes narrow. I feel the sweat trickle down my forehead.

Eight. The world starts to speed up. Dear God, what am I doing.

Nine. My hand goes to my gun. An old colt, single action.

Ten. Back up to speed. The world spins and I draw. The trigger squeezes easily in my hand.

Bang! My gun goes off, and so does the one in front of me. Blood splatters on the ground, running down coat and chaps.

My knees collide with the ground as my legs give way. A scream, and then multiple cheers as I fall onto my face. I've lost.

Two hands haul my to my feet, and I dust myself off.

"Good job," My best friend says.

I shake hands with my opponant, and go to sign suveneers for small children. We laugh, and we do it again in three hours, at three in the afternoon.

This is my life.
This is my job.