The sound of gunfire. It was the noise Kid Cole hated most in the world, and yet it was one he heard too often. Even more ironically, the sound had come from his own gun, and it crumpled the man in front of him.

Hoping it had only winged him, a closer inspection proved it had instead killed him. He didn't know the thirty-something man, but the man had known him and had shot at him while he rode by on his horse to draw him into a duel. The stranger had known that to be declared "The Fastest Draw in the West" one only had to outshoot Kid Cole. It was his never-ending curse, having to kill to stay alive, defending a title he didn't want. Sometimes he just wished he could be someone else if only for a little while.

Kid surveyed the property in front of him. It was just a little ranch located out in unnamed territory. The house was small and the interior lacked any sort of frill, indicating that at least the man was likely single. With the ranch came a couple horses, chickens, and about a dozen cattle. A small enterprise, but it was good land with great potential. It was a shame this fellow had thrown it all away on the silly pursuit of a cursed prize.

Kid still had no clue who he was or whether there were any kin after his inspection, but it didn't seem proper to just leave him lying out in the tall prairie grass, so putting him across his horse and draping a blanket over him, he headed to where he knew town to be from the map.

Didn't seem much point in taking him to a doctor now, so he took him to the undertaker, who displayed a suitable wooden coffin in front of his place and a sympathetic smile.

"What happened to him?" the undertaker, a Mr. Whitaker, asked with a professional curiosity bordering on morbid after he'd helped Kid into the shop with the body and laid him across a worktable.

"The fool went and got his self shot messing around with a gun he shouldn't have been messing with."

"This is very nice shirt," the undertaker said fingering the man's linen collar with his bony fingers. "Almost a shame to be buried in it, but your brother will look nice at his service."

It was a nice shirt: clean, white, and starched. The bullet had lodged in his neck, managing to keep it pristine oddly enough. He had either been a dandy or today had been a special occasion for him. He could see at a glance why Mr. Whitaker thought this man was his brother. He too had been tall and lanky with coal black hair and dark brown eyes. "He's not my-"

But he wasn't listening. It cleared up any thought that the undertaker might know him, although someone must've interacted with him. He'd have to ask around. "I may have to make a longer one," Mr. Whitaker said after taking some preliminary measurements of the body, "and I have a chair to finish first." The undertaker here doubled as a furniture maker.

"No big hurry. I'll pay now. How much is the coffin?"

"Depends on the amount of wood I'll need. My guess is $5. Maybe $6."

He paid him $7. "Keep the change." He should have waited for the final price, but he wanted the matter over and done with. It was blood money, money paid to assuage his guilt, he thought darkly. But why should he feel guilty? He hadn't fired the first shot, but he couldn't reason with his feelings.

"How should I mark the grave?"

"A wooden cross is fine."

"And the name? I saw the last name Ball sewn into the collar, but it only had an S for his Christian name."

He was about to try explaining to Mr. Whitaker again that he didn't know him when he saw the sheriff on the street outside though the lawman didn't even glance toward the shop. It wasn't that Kid had done anything wrong. It had been a matter of self-defense, but he didn't want to get tangled up in any legal proceedings, so he went with the undertaker's story that the man was his brother. "Samuel. Don't arrange nothing fancy for his burial service. I'm his sole mourner."

If Mr. Whitaker was surprised he didn't want a hearse or a minister, he didn't say so. "It'll be ready before the evening's through."

"Good enough." He needed a stiff drink to take the edge off despite the earliness of the hour. "Samuel" had looked none too pretty, and the image of him was burned into his mind. He had to pass by the depot on his way towards the saloon.

"Are you Mr. Stephen Ball?" the stationmaster asked as he approached.

"Who wants to know?"

"There's a lady looking for you, a Miss Ruth McKenzie," he said, jumping to the conclusion that he was said man. People did that a lot around here he'd noticed.

He was about to say there was no lady looking for him, but that was before he saw her. She had the most arresting blue eyes he'd ever seen, but it wasn't the color that drew him; it was like he could see into her soul through them at that moment, and the soul it revealed was so pure and so beautiful, he couldn't look away if he'd tried.

He had secretly scoffed at the men, deep in their cups, who spoke of love at first sight, but he wouldn't any longer. He didn't know how long he stood there just staring at her.

"Mr. Ball?"

He would have answered to any name she'd called him just then. "Ma'am?"

"You're a sight for sore eyes after the trip I've had. I must look a fright." Her words were warm and friendly, spoken like she was intimately acquainted with him.

"No, you look mighty fine from where I'm standing."

"You're very kind. Have you talked to the preacher, yet?"

"Why do I need to talk to the preacher?" For a second, he thought she'd heard about his dealings with the undertaker.

"Why?" She looked as if she didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or beat him upside the head. "Because today's our wedding day."