A Red Right Hand

Note: Image associated is from Ironage.media, specifically their prompt 'The Consequence'

"If you keep on running, you'll only die tired, Jim."

"So you say, Phil, so you say." Jim's breath came short in the bitter cold November air, his breath visible in heavy clouds before him. Damn, the mountains had already plunged deep into winter. "Didn't hear your horse. Guessing Mike winged him, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jim turned around slowly, his arms hovering by his waist, "You hesitating, Phil? Or do you just want to see which of us is faster?" He tried to put his usual bravado into his voice, but it seemed just out of his reach. After all, how do you show courage in the face of a dead man?

"Didn't seem right to shoot a friend in the back. I thought you at least should die with your hands on steel. Unlike Mike." Jim could see Phil smiling in the cold, but his eyes stayed still, two pools of ice-blue hate staring out from under his hat brim. Something wasn't right about Phil as he stood there, red gloved hand around a snub-nosed .40. It looked like he'd had more work done to it, and judging from the lack of a belt, he still kept it in the pockets of his bear-suede cloak.

"Friend? I've not seen you in 20 years, and now you do show up, you're killing us all. That ain't anyone's definition of friend." His breath was coming stronger now, hands steadying despite the cold. The numbness he felt every time he duelled came over him, his eyes sharpening their focus. Phil's face hadn't changed even a little. Not even one day of two decades had been added to him.

"Perhaps not 'friend' right now, then. But we were friends. And you were there too." Jim slowly pulled his revolver from his belt, both men clicking the hammers back as one.

"The River? Yeah, we all were, save those cowards who ran away. Like you." Jim was breathing slowly now, posture relaxing into his preferred stance, right foot just a little ahead of his left, prepared to shift his body sideways to avoid the shot.

"Huh." Jim almost didn't hear Phil over the report of his .40. Didn't even move until after the bullet had warmed his guts with his blood, his arm lazily obeying him. Phil trudged over through the calf-high snow and gently pushed his arm and revolver away before putting two more bullets in his chest. As he fell back, he realized what had been wrong with Phil. No fog was in front of his face, not from his nose or mouth.

"I'll take care of Chauncey for you. May you have a better rest than I, friend." The finely engraved barrel came into view, and the last thing Jim saw and heard was the bullet that took his life.