He sat down placing his hat on the table beside him and removed his six-shooter from its leather holster. A lamp burned warmly on the table of rough hewn pine, scarred and stained but still serving its purpose. Oil, rags and bullets sat on the table. He took the weapon apart piece by piece. His mind wandered over the past, the lives taken and saved with the same gun. He was no longer sporting tin. He left that life to rust in a grave beside a cabin and a skeletal tree. He lived a new life but some things remain.
book group prompt: Gunslinger.
Also a tiny bit of a Tin Man fanfic, Cain of course.
