Stamp's Arrow

“Sometimes when all th'cleanin's done and nobody ain't got th'urge to hang around the saloon, this chore's what tickles me best.”

Rudy was frivolously conversing with the only customer around, who had walked in several minutes before and still hadn't decided which liquor would strike his fancy that evening.
He was referencing the pistol he was cleaning on the back end of the bar. Even after practicing the same routine for almost 10 years, Rudy didn't consider himself much of a gun enthusiast or guru, but giving the public impression of such seemed to keep trouble at bay.

The quiet, lonesome man wearing a dark brown duster at the bar maintained a mild smile, and kept his cowboy hat tipped downward. Rudy started to realize that it was he himself who was doing all of the talking, so with a slight nod of embarrassment, he tried to break the ice more directly.

“Where're my manners! Name's Rudy, Rudy McKowen.” The man looked up briefly, and almost ashamedly bowed his head as he extended his right hand, which appeared to be caked in dirt, almost as though it was rusted. “Matthew Stamp. Like guns, do you?”
“Just about as much I can allow m'self to, given my position.”

Matthew pulled out his shiny revolver and placed it on the bar, barrel safely and symmetrically pointing sideways. “My gift to you...no longer of any use to me. Hopefully you won't ever need to dirty the trigger.”

Rudy was speechless for a few seconds. “Golly Mr. Stamp, that's awful kinda ya! You sure 'bout this?”
Matthew humbly nodded. “One condition though – a double of your finest, whatever it is.”
“Yess'r! Comin' up fer the finest gentleman this town's ever known!”

Rudy pulled the bottle of MacAllan 30 from his top shelf and poured liberally into a rocks glass. Stamp fondled the glass and sniffed it before sipping. He sipped three or four times before he snorted back some disguised tears, and chugged the rest whole. Instead of customarily slamming his glass down on the bar, he handed it directly to Rudy, not making eye contact the entire time. “Thanks so much. The drink and conversation was much appreciated.”

Matthew Stamp slowly sauntered towards the saloon doors.

“You have a marv'lous evenin', partner!” shouted Rudy as he wiped the man's glass.

Rudy's eyes slowly elevated upwards to the stranger Matthew Stamp's figure as it slowed to a halt before leaving the bar. Stamp was beginning to stumble. A squint from Rudy revealed a hole in the back of Matthew's coat, decorated by some fresh red stains.

Rudy McKowen bemusedly looked downward, observing the revolver lying on his bar, pointing left, like a shiny arrow.

Matthew Stamp walked outside, and followed the path set by his gun to his very last breath, which was just moments after he disappeared from the sights of the bartender and that lonesome six-shooter.