DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Even with all this time trying to get it perfect, this still is the best I could do for this chapter. Sorry.

It can last seconds, minutes, in a very few cases even hours. However long it actually lasts, an active gunfight can feel like an eternity while you're in it.

The triggering point of a gunfight, on the other hand, passes in a blink-and-you're-dead moment.

Ranger's eyes didn't blink. Instead, at the sound of the hammer clicking back, they widened. His body was already moving without his brain even having fully registered the sound, carrying him to the nearest cover even as the first trigger was pulled. Almost before he was close enough, his legs propelled him from the ground to land roughly behind the trough he had last used for concealment, the force of impact knocking the wind out of him. He rolled face-up, croaking as he tried to take in air.

Gunfire was quick in tracking with him, bullets pockmarking the trough. The sandbrick was never designed to stop bullets, but it was tough enough to resist the debris windstorms kicked up. It helped that most of the incoming fire consisted of ammunition not designed for this situation, the O'Brien side of the equation having primarily opted for the ease of sidearms instead of the range and power of rifles.

That only meant this cover was adequate, not ideal. This was proven as a bullet hit just right to nick off a shard of sandbrick that left its mark on his forehead in what felt like a decent-sized cut.

Forehead? Where the hell had his hat gone? The damn warrant was gone too, likely dropped as survival had suddenly rocketed to the top of his priorities list.

Well, it wasn't going to do any good now anyway. It was a proper warrant, made partially as a paper trail in the unlikely event outside authorities did become involved in the affairs of Kirk; its main use, though, was as a prop, something to help him throw the O'Brien men off-balance and get Kurtz in his custody.

That thin hope was dashed, the warrant useless. The Kobayashi Maru was in full play.

Locals loved to talk about the supposedly unbeatable test, and the man who had beaten it by cheating. But there was no way to cheat at this point. The only way out of this one was going to be through it.

His breath had returned. Just barely peering out from his protection, he caught sight of an O'Brien man steadying his arm for a shot. Calculated the range and lined up his aim at the gunman even while his gun was still raising. But before the man with the badge could take his shot, a rifle report sounded from the trough behind him. It hit the gunman just as he fired, his shot suddenly thrown off-course as he was wounded in his gun arm, weapon falling to the ground. Presented with an immediate choice, the enemy opted to scramble away while clutching his wound instead of grabbing the gun with his off arm. Provided he didn't have another weapon on him, that was presumably one threat out of the fight.

So the big one was over here. The little one, if she was smart, had chosen the cover nearest to her, which placed her on the wall opposite this side. For the time being, at least, she was on her own.

The rifle fired again, twice. The reports were so close together that from behind his cover, Ranger couldn't tell if they were for general discouragement or aimed at specific targets. Between the number of opposition gunmen and the increased range the rifle offered, however, he felt sure they would hit someone. That was a good thing about being up against numbers, more targets.

Gunfire sought the source of the rifle fire, shooters zeroing in on the trough behind him. The distance was enough that most of the shots missed, though some hit and some ricocheted off the side, depending on where they came from.

"Y'all right, big girl?" Ranger called.

"Peachy keen, jellybean." Sounded like she meant it, so he took her at her word. Her rifle fired again.

More responding gunfire sounded, but Ranger didn't have ammunition to waste on keeping heads down, as the other side seemed to. The distance between them and the O'Brien men, at the farther end of effective sidearm range, meant shots were more likely to miss than hit. He was going to have to really pick his shots, especially if he wanted to keep his promise about trying not to kill anyone.

Not that he necessarily wanted to, as a flurry of gunfire hit close enough to kick sand on him. But a promise is a promise.

Remember the objective. The main thing now had to be to get Dodd through this alive. He was the reason Kurtz and the other gunmen were here. The stubborn rifleman would never sell, regardless of pressure, and Big Sister clearly felt it worth the risk to force a confrontation that got her this land.

Before he'd left to go looking for information on her and what she might want with Kirk, Ranger would have questioned whether she'd risk a war. But he'd buried two bodies just hours ago that removed all uncertainty – Mercy O'Brien meant to have this town, even if the process of getting it left every inhabitant dead.

The badge he wore was just a cheap hunk of metal, worth far less in money than the polished badges of the supposedly elite Federal Rangers. But it was his badge, he took an oath when he put it on. It made him responsible for all of the people of Kirk. By God, no one else was going to die on his watch, not this time.

Had to get to the damn house. The question was how to get there from here, across open land, without death kindly stopping for him.

Another spate of enemy fire came in, one shot impacting just right on the corner of the trough for him to roughly calculate where it came from. His gun stuck out and barked twice. The ensuing cry of "Sumbitch shot my leg!" told him he'd scored at least one hit, though Ranger wished both shots had hit, or at least that the gun arm had been the wounded limb. An enemy with limited mobility can still shoot.

Another yowl of pain sounded from close to Dodd's house. Ranger hadn't fired that way, and he hadn't heard the woman fire, nor had he heard the shot come from the direction the short one had gone off in, though with his plugs he doubted he would hear her peashooters even if their ammunition could travel any reasonable distance. He caught sight of movement through the windows of the house – that would be Dodd. The extra gun was appreciated, but Ranger hoped the old man didn't put more of a bullseye on himself than was already there.

There was an uptick in the volume of gunfire coming this way. Peeking just enough from his protection for another look, he spotted several O'Brien men standing tall, striding toward his position, guns laying down a volley of fire. It wasn't a bad idea, advancing under cover fire; they just were lousy at executing it, too clustered together, and firing at the same time meant there was no suppression when it was time to reload.

Ranger was sure they were bad men, each dangerous of their own accord. But they clearly weren't used to open combat.

What was her name again? Never mind. "Tall lady!"

"Yes?"

"Hostiles at eleven, lay down some fire!"

"What time is it now?"

Oh, for love of – "Just fire left of center!"

"All right." The rifle popped up, steadied on the trough, the tall woman working the lever and cranking off shots in the rough direction of the gunmen.

That interrupted their progress, one hit in the shoulder and another in his off arm, and they went to their knees to return fire on that second trough where the rifle shots were coming from.

They would have been better off going prone, but Ranger wasn't going to look this gift thomas in the mouth. He rolled out to the side just far enough for them all to be in his line of fire, reeling off shots. One in the knee. One in the leg. One in the arm. Every shot hit some part of a gunman, every gunman absorbing at least one shot.

With all of them wounded and retreating back to the edge of range quick as they could, Ranger rolled back into cover, working to control his adrenaline-spiked heartbeat while he emptied spent shells and loaded live ones. Never should have made that damn promise to the short woman, that could have been dead enemies instead of live ones. There were times when wounding was preferable; so far, this didn't seem like one of them.

Peeked for another recon –

"Down, please!"

– and ducked as the big woman fired several more shots, emptying her magazine. Her reward was the cries of several more wounded men, and Ranger was glad that she was proving to be such good support.

Only for a moment, though. Because while she reloaded, he managed to get a full look at things. There were two gates to the coops area, one on either side of the house, and each had O'Brien gunmen by them now. What the hell were they – "Damnation!"

"Has something else gone wrong?" the woman queried.

The ground shook as thomases rushed into the freer space outside their coop area, raising dust and feathery cain in general. The equation had just changed; thomases running loose meant distraction, shots obstructed, a way for the side with the higher ammo count and numbers to start moving closer. It wasn't the best development for Ranger's side.

"Never mind," the woman answered herself.

Ranger very carefully emptied a cylinder as suppression, picking targets as best he could through the dust and roaming thomases. The tall woman – Milly, that was her name! – added some rifle fire to the mix. The cries and shouts of wounded men indicated their fire was having an effect, but Ranger would far prefer knowing just how incapacitated the enemies actually were. You can't always tell wound severity by decibel reaction; a man might holler over a graze, might silently grunt at a serious wound.

After his last shot, he hunkered down and reloaded, thinking things over as he thumbed in shells and counted how many he had left. Not as many as he would like, was the answer.

The hob being raised by the thomases worked to the advantage of the O'Brien side. But it also reduced visibility – you can only aim if you can see the target in the first place. There was a lesser volume of incoming fire, the dust masking the O'Brien men to the extent such a heavy usage of ammunition was unnecessary – but it was lesser, not nonexistent.

This might not be entirely a bad thing. "Milly, move up here while I cover you!"

Ranger proceeded to lean out to the side, popping off three quick-aimed shots, then ducked back in cover and raised just the gun, issuing three more shots, as Milly scurried around her trough low to the ground, advancing until she was scooched next to him, curled to try to have her entire frame behind the trough.

"Good crawl," he noted as he reloaded.

"You have to know how to move low if you want to track sandworms."

He couldn't help but blink as he inserted the last shell. "Why would you want to track them?"

"To catch them, of course," she replied with a cheery smile

This lady was a surprise a minute. "I'll ask later, right now Dodd needs someone at his six. I'm making a go for the house. Stay here and cover me, got it?"

Milly nodded her head.

"Acknowledge you heard me."

"I've got it, Mr. Ranger."

"Good. Once I'm there, if I need you I'll let you know, but meantime stay here, keep picking your shots. Move farther back if you need to, but stick to these troughs, they're the only cover we've got. Copy?"

"I've been wondering –"

"What?"

"About Meryl –"

"Skip it," commanded the man with the badge. He knew exactly where she was headed. "Y'all both had a chance to get out, didn't take it. Job right now is keep Dodd alive. She's on her own."

Now why the hell did her head have to hang down like she was a dog he'd just kicked?

Ranger rubbed at his tired eyes. "Look…I need you here. You've got the rifle, you're good with it, that puts you as sharpshooter. Stay here, pick off hostiles as you can. I'll move Dodd back here, then – and only then – we can look for your partner as we fall back. Understood?"

He was a damn fool to feel better at the way she brightened and replied, "Understood, Mr. Ranger!"

"Top off your mag." Milly fed shells into the rifle, gave a thumbs-up when she was done. "Now on my mark, let loose with half your mag, space your shots a few second apart. Only half – save the rest for sharpshooting."

She gave a nod. "All right. When you're ready."

Ranger tugged at the bandanna tied loosely around his neck, pulling it up from under his shirt and over his nose to keep from breathing the dust he was about to plunge into. "Mark!"

The word had barely left his mouth but he was already moving in a low run, haste taking precedence over caution. Out of the dust cloud came a thomas right for him, spooked by all the gunfire. Before Ranger could dart in either direction, the beast leaped. It probably cleared his height by a good distance, but he still got a much closer view of its feet, particularly the razor claws that gave it grip but also could disembowel a human in one slash, than he would ever be comfortable with.

No time to deal with that; process later, drive on now.

He kept running, right into the path of a startled enemy. Ranger had the quicker reaction, accelerating as he lowered his shoulder and plowed into the man's midsection before the gunman could so much as snap off a reflex shot. Air whooshed from his opponent as they went to the ground, but the man was competent; he didn't panic, instead slamming the butt of his gun into the side of Ranger's head.

A flower of pain blossomed, but Ranger forced himself past it, blocking a second blow and clamping his hand solidly around the gunman's wrist, squeezing like a vise with no give. He slammed the hand against the ground in a swift, violent motion. The impact forced the weapon free from its owner's hold, even as Ranger's other arm was at work – at this distance, his elbow was more effective than his fist, pistoning away at the liver and spleen and solar plexus. The last strikes were a hard palm directly behind the gunman's ear, followed by a quick shot to his throat.

It was a brief but violent onslaught, for a very specific intent. Almost like he was helping him walk, Ranger hefted the gunman to his feet, keeping as low as he could without stumbling from the weight he was supporting, doing his best to keep the O'Brien man between him and any gunfire coming their way. Thomases ran this way and that, but there were no collisions, though one did deliver another too-close-for-comfort jump over the two-legged obstacles it couldn't move around fast enough.

Ranger didn't care much to be using what was basically a human shield, but it wasn't like this shield would have had any qualms about putting a bullet in him were things reversed. Besides, he was owed some slack. This was a world where the good guys left you to die, then turned their backs on you when you survived.

Damn it, his shield was heavy. But there wasn't that much farther to go. One foot in front of the other, sand swirling around them, gunshots missing by luck or divine will but sure as hell not on purpose. Just keep moving…

"C'mon, Mouse," Ranger wheezed, both his cargo and the dust making it hard to breathe, even through the filter of his bandanna. "Stay with me, y'sumbitch, we're almost to the pickup…"

It wasn't the abandoned pickup point he reached, it was Dodd's little house. The man he had with him wasn't his half-dead partner.

Damn it, of all the times to zone out…Ranger shook his head, trying to overcome the pain and haze inflicted by his shield's gun butt, get completely back to the present. He yanked his bandanna low, drew his gun and pounded on the door once, followed by a four knocks, then a double-tap – shave and a haircut, two bits – before drawing back one leg and kicking the door open. His gun sight guided him in, checking for hostiles. Clear. Lowered his human shield just enough that the gunman didn't risk injury when Ranger let him drop the rest of the way to the floor of the sparse main room they were in. The start of a scramble to his feet was stopped by Ranger pressing him back down with a boot on his chest.

"Stay put."

"You're going to get me killed!" the gunman snarled, a half-croak because of the weight on his chest in addition to the damage the man with the badge had already dealt him.

"I'll send flowers. Stay put or I'll make y'stay." Ranger wasn't about to risk the gunman becoming a liability. "Dodd! It's Ranger!"

The house was very simple – main room and front door, open kitchen on one end with a rear door, bedroom on the other end. The bedroom door opened a crack. Satisfied with what he saw, former rifleman Dodd stepped into full view from the side of the door, where he had waited in case of a trap.

"Quiet, pup," Dodd chided. "Got my hands full shooing varmints away, don't need your noise throwing off my aim."

"And I don't need shot 'cause y'took me for them, y'older'n'sin Methuselah," Ranger snapped back. "C'mon, time to go."

"I'm not leaving my house on account of these whelps!" the old rifleman retorted. "This is my land, bought with my sweat and blood!"

"Dead men don't own nothin'! Ain't got time to argue – come with of free will, or I knock y'out and drag y'back!"

Dodd thought it over for a handful of moments. "Come to that," he finally announced, "it would be embarrassing to be killed by numbers instead of good aim. Fine. I'll go with you – but only to come back and take what's mine."

"Works. They got no claim long's y'stay alive. Now let's egress, clock's tickin'."

"Clock's run out," came a raspy voice from the kitchen door that Ranger had hoped to not hear again until he had cuffs on the man it belonged to.

The scowl that had been residing on Ranger's human shield shifted to a relieved smile at seeing the most lethal gunman he knew. No doubt Mr. Kurtz wouldn't be at all pleased with him for getting in this mess, but he would gladly take punishment later so long as it meant surviving now.

Decades of experience had instilled in Dodd a mental reaction time quicker than most, but his physical reaction time had slowed. His shot, fired from the hip, missed Kurtz by just a fraction. The instant followup shot still came a microsecond too slow as Kurtz's own shot slammed into his shoulder, jerking the carbine off-line and sending the shot wide. The O'Brien man on the floor lost his smile as the bullet entered him, yielding one of those random kill shots that can occur in battle. It's not the bullet with your name on it you need to worry about, but the many addressed To Whom It May Concern.

Dodd grunted with the impact of Kurtz's bullet. His aged body was still sturdy enough to remain standing, but his shooting for that day was done.

Screw what Ranger had promised. He went for the head shot just a little slower than Dodd had fired, having to draw and turn and acquire the target. But that heartbeat seemed to be enough, because he would swear Kurtz moved at the exact moment he pulled the trigger, head snapping to the side. Luck? Skill? Either way, the bastard was still alive.

As smoke spiraled from the barrel of Ranger's revolver, Kurtz grinned, resembling more a death rictus than any actual smile. More disturbing than that or his graveyard laugh, though, was the wild light dancing in his eyes. "That was fun."

"Next one won't be. Sighted on center mass now."

"Take a look."

Keeping his sights trained, Ranger flicked his eyes to Kurtz's gun. Held low, the weapon nonetheless was lined up for a head shot on Dodd, its owner's thumb holding back the hammer at the same time as his finger held back the trigger. If Ranger somehow missed or only wounded the gunman, Kurtz merely had to move his thumb; if he killed Kurtz, the thumb would still come off the hammer.

Kurtz was secondary. Keep Dodd alive. But the only way Ranger could see to do that now was to kill Kurtz, and he wasn't sure he could do that even in the showdown the gunman had made it clear he wanted, not in close quarters like this. Maybe out in the open, with more room for Kurtz to miss the old man, but in here – even if Ranger scored a lethal shot, the close proximity made it too likely that with his final seconds Kurtz could take Dodd with him.

He had to buy time to think. "I know what y'want. Not yet."

Kurtz's mouth tilted up slightly into a half-smile. "Take all the time you want, but this hammer could drop any second."

"Won't."

"Not your life you're betting."

"Not a bet. Y'want this to play out more'n y'want Dodd dead."

"Maybe. If the conditions change. Old man!" Kurtz barked at Dodd. "Empty the pipe."

Scowling, the rifleman nonetheless took his free hand from where it was applying pressure to his wounded shoulder and awkwardly emptied his weapon, releasing the magazine and ejecting the chambered round. As the round clattered and rolled on the floor, he answered the jerk of Kurtz's head by tossing the magazine away. It landed next to the nameless dead man, which Kurtz had yet to regard with more interest than anyone on Gunsmoke would devote to a single grain of sand.

"Now sit down."

Dodd obeyed, using the carbine as a crutch to lower himself until he was sitting. He let the gun fall, his free hand once again pressing against his shoulder wound. Kurtz kept his gun on center mass, hammer and trigger still down.

"So. How long are you betting the hammer stays back?"

"Long enough. Y'did the Hydes?"

Kurtz's eyes glinted. "The boy. Pierre did the barber."

"O'Brien's orders?"

"Right."

"Harrington? That Pierre?"

"No. Me. Thought he might be the one. He wasn't. Pierre got rid of the body on Ms. O'Brien's say-so. Can't hide suspicion of murder, but you can still hide the proof. Anything else?"

"What's her plan? What in shitfire'n'tarnation's she want with Kirk?"

"I keep the boys in line, pull the trigger as needed. That's what I get paid for. You want the big picture, you'll have to ask her. But before you do – I've granted you your courtesy. Grant me mine."

Ranger's mind was racing through ideas, but they all ended with the old rifleman dead. He grasped at one last time-buying straw. "If y'want to die s'damn bad, why not do it'n be done?"

Kurtz shook his head, a minute movement that never moved his eyes off Ranger. "That's cheating. Not right to die by your own hand. A man should only lose his life to someone better at taking it than he is at keeping it."

That was it. Ranger was out of moves and out of time.

Slowly, as though his body were fighting him on this, he released the hammer and holstered. Kurtz did the same only after Ranger's hand was off the weapon. Then he rolled his neck loosely and waited, looking more like a man waiting to bum a smoke than someone about to either kill or be killed.

Ranger tried to still his breathing, slow his heartbeat. It seemed certain he would lose this Kobayashi Maru, but you never can tell. Just a little bit of luck, Lord...

The shot came.

Not from Kurtz, and not from Ranger, but from outside, impacting a wall and nicking out chips. Neural messages were just being sent out and this sudden new stimulus affected them, throwing Kurtz's aim just enough that the shot he now fired, just a heartbeat after that shot from outside, went into Ranger's side instead of its intended mark, skewing his own shot wide of Kurtz.

Another shot came in through the open front door, then another, bits of sandbrick arcing away from the impacts. Deprived of what he had been seeking, Kurtz swore and settled for completing his assignment. One final shot to the old man and he fled back the way he had come; with his job done and his confrontation ruined, there was no reason to stay and fight.

Kurtz's shot had sent Ranger back against a wall, where he slid down with a grimace, hand desperately keeping pressure on his wound even as he still clutched his weapon. Badly wounded or not, he meant to be ready for whoever came through that door.

He saw twin revolvers first, sweeping the room, then came the figure of Barkeep.

The bartender holstered and moved swiftly to Ranger, kneeling and shrugging off his pack. Ranger shook his head as Barkeep surveyed the damage. "See if Dodd's alive," he instructed.

"Not dead yet, pup," growled the old rifleman from where Kurtz had left him for dead. "Hurt like hell, but that sumbitch didn't know shrapnel tried to do his job for him long before I had a life here. Got a metal plate in my head, feels like nothing but tissue damage."

"Shoulder wound," Ranger reminded him.

"Shut up." Barkeep was busy cleaning Ranger's own wound before giving it a generous amount of clotting powder and prepping for bandaging, which was all he really was able to do here."Help's on the way. Looks like Kurtz snapped his shot at the wrong angle, seems to have bounced off a rib. Likely broke it, but at least we don't have to risk infection digging for a slug. No more infection than you're already asking for."

"Even if y'don't get hit, y'know damn well y'get scratched up from what does." It wasn't Ranger's fault that debris from near misses had him nicked up.

"Is everyone ok, Mr. Barkeep?" Milly's voice preceded her entrance by just a moment, her rifle held pointed at the ground, finger clear of the trigger; even in stressful events, ingrained habit remains, and it was clear one of her ingrained habits was good weapon discipline.

"Two wounded," Barkeep informed her. "Take my pack and see to Dodd there, head and shoulder wounds. Don't worry, his bark is worse than his bite."

"Don't you believe him, girl," Dodd said, though the growl was gone and he sounded more fatigued now than anything.

"What about this other man over here?" Milly looked worriedly at the O'Brien man Ranger had used as a shield and whose life had been taken by accident in the first exchange of gunfire between Kurtz, Dodd, and Ranger.

"It's too late for him," Barkeep said, relieved to find that he had to work to keep his voice flat; in another life, it had come far too natural to him to be casual about death.

"It was always too late for him," Dodd stated. "If it wasn't here and now, it would have happened some other way today."

"Your time is your time," Barkeep observed, the words coming out in almost a heavy sigh.

"Not that," the rifleman replied. "He's wearing a red shirt."

Barkeep and Ranger groaned at the same time. They didn't really get it, but they knew it was a display of the unusual humor shown by both original and longtime residents of Kirk.

Milly worked to shrug off her unease at the grim humor and did as she had been instructed, taking Barkeep's pack with its medical supplies and going to Dodd. She did her best to examine and tend to his wounds. The shoulder shot had gone straight through and, as he suspected, the head wound was far less serious than Kurtz had intended.

"It looks like you kept the worst from happening," she told Barkeep while she worked.

"Y'were the one shooting?" Ranger asked. He grunted as Barkeep finished wrapping him tight with bandage; more complete treatment would have to wait for himself and the old man until everyone was safely back in town.

"I was."

The man with the badge eyed the bartender. "Missed."

"You have to be aiming at someone to miss them," Barkeep corrected him. "I found Milly, she told me you'd come here, I came and could make out just enough to know there was trouble. All I was trying to do was stop the momentum."

"Might've redirected it. Y'didn't know how many were here."

"I'd aim if I had to."

"What about Jamie?" Ranger asked quietly.

Barkeep shrugged, really not wanting to think about it any more than he already had. "I hope whoever makes the rules doesn't count this as breaking my promise to her. But even if I have to be without her after I'm gone – I couldn't let my friend just die. I can only pray she understands."

"She does. She made y'who y'are."

Ranger suddenly barked half a laugh, immediately regretting it. "Just thought of something," he said. It took some effort because adrenaline was wearing off and he was feeling both the pain from his wound and the tight bandaging that didn't make it any easier to breathe, though he would willingly accept both when he thought of how bad it could have been. "Kurtz wants to face a better gunman than him. Imagine if he knew who y'used to be."

"I'd rather not. I put these on this one time to help you, I won't for him. That's something Jamie certainly would not cut me slack on."

Ranger didn't respond. He was giving quiet thanks; the metal plate may have saved Dodd from the last shot, but it was Barkeep's intervention that ultimately was the pressure that made it the final shot and kept the old cuss alive. That was the first step in beating this unbeatable scenario. There was still half a fighting chance.

Finished patching up Ranger as best he could, Barkeep went to the doorway to look at what was happening on the other side of Dodd's land, where Vash had gone when they got to the gate.

Milly came to join him. "What do you see?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Too many thomases kicking up dust to see anything. But I know what's out there."

"What's that?"

Barkeep frowned; what he saw in Vash's eyes when they split up made him regret that he had encouraged Vash into any of this. "Something between a devil and a demon."