Wait.

A few minutes pass. It's very very quiet. You can almost hear him breathing. There's a bit of rustling from his direction and a gentle clinking sound - perhaps reloading.

Then silence. Something's about to happen. You can feel it. You slowly, quietly ease yourself to the ground, lying flat on the dirt at the corner of the cabin. A few seconds after you settle back into stillness, the man appears from around the tree trunk. He's crouching, with a revolver held in both hands. He has an antique-looking bolt-action rifle slung over his shoulder and is wearing an ensemble of muted, filthy outdoor clothes. He has a ragged beard and wild eyes, and wears a white cap with flashes of red over an unkempt head of greasy looking hair.

He doesn't see you, and sweeps the front of the cabin with the pistol. He's muttering to himself, and begins shouting.

"YOU IN THERE, CUPCAKE? SHOW YOURSELF TO OL' CLARENCE. I'MA TAKE ALL DAY KILLIN' YOU."

He brings the muzzle of the revolver towards you, and a flash of recognition fills his eyes, but you squeeze the trigger before he can respond, and he jerks an instant later when your bullet punches through his shoulder.

The revolver remains up, albeit flailing wildly, as one hand falls away from it. He fires, the shot harmlessly wide, but it shows he is still very much a threat. You fire twice more, striking him in the chest and sending him spinning. He's flung backwards, landing awkwardly in a heap. You spring to your feet, weapon pointing directly at him, and hurry forward to where he lies.

The revolver is in his hand still and he tries to bring to towards you. You're there in time to plant your boot on his wrist, and it fires again as his muscles twitch, kicking up a plume of dirt a few feet away. You look down at his face, wild with fury, and he spits bloody foam at you.

"You little bitch," he manages to croak. "You better finish the job or I'ma **** you and gut you like a squealing pig."

You need no more encouragement. You fire a fourth shot directly into his face, shattering his skull and silencing his vicious snarl.

Peace once again returns to the camp. But not to you. You remain frozen, staring at the ruin that you've made of this man. Details appear to you now, like the swirling, faded tattoos that creep up his neck from the collar of his shirt. The awkward angle of his leg that can't have resulted from the fall, perhaps showing a previous injury or congenital defect that may explain his slower movements. But mostly you are transfixed by the gore that splattered out from his head when you finished him. Fragments and pulp spray out behind him. You did this.

You did this.

You did this.

You stagger away, stomach heaving, and you throw up heavily against the tree that he'd been hiding behind until moments ago.