"Bumforgiven"

"They call me The Myopic Kid, on account of my firearm of choice." He twirled the pistol in his hand. "The Colt Myopic 88."
"That’s a Colt Nay 33 kid."
The young horseman squinted at the raised lettering on his pistol. "The Nay Kid?" he mumbled. "Look mister, I ain't here to discuss the finer points of pistol names."
"Best you be telling me your business then," said the old farmer.
"Two gay cowboys cut up a manwhore pretty bad. All up in his titties and such. Worked over his sack too I expect. All them she males have collaborated their earnings and are offering a reward for justice."
"Justice or vengeance?"
"It don't matter beyond the telling of it. I'm just looking to get my hands on some of that brown gold and maybe some free ones while I'm at it."
"I'm not giving out free ones kid."
"I'm here because I need a partner and I heard you were a killin' machine. Story was that a man could make a healthy living from digging graves in your wake."
"You got the wrong man kid."
"Heard tell that Dead Man Pass used to be called Crowning Meadows till you took it on yourself to clean it up."
"That ain't me kid."
"Heard you even killed Gambling Freakshow Eddie Owe Nine. And they say he could dodge bullets."
The old farmers eyes cut the horizon. "Freakshow Eddie," memories from the ether, "I fired on him. Sumbitch was faster than a shadow, crouched right down to the dirt. Didn't know I was aiming for his balls."
"The duck of death," whispered The Myopic Kid.
"His face, it disappeared, fell away from his skull like a crimson shroud. A mans features shouldn't do that..."
"Pa, another hog has the fever." The farmer’s young sons voice cut through the past.
"Goddamnit kid, that ain't me, not anymore."
The old farmer kicked at the dirt. "Kid, I upheld the law. I killed men like others swatted midgets. And I killed some of those little fellas too. If they were deserving it. But I met a woman. A good woman. And I calmed my ways, took to working in a Public Trust Bank, until we had sufficient savings. I bought this here hog farm on which I could raise the little ones. Now my wife, God rest her soul, is waiting for me on the other side. When I see her again, I know she'll be proud that I kept to my peaceful ways."
"Seems like a step backwards to me," said the Kid.
"Well I guess it depends on which way your facing. Now you best be following your path." Spinning his horse, the kid made to ride away but turned back again. "You looking rusty and all but if the wind blows differently and you want to catch up with me, I'll be riding along Boddicker ridge."
"Kid," said the old farmer."
"Yeah mister."
"Some advice. Good easy on the aftershave. A drop of infinity goes a long way and I smelled you coming two days ago."
Long after the beat of hooves on dirt had left his ears, the yearning remained in his heart.
"Pa, the damn hogs, they got the fever."

The old farmer stood ten feet from the post upon which he had placed the can. The mechanism in his leg long since unused began to buzz to life. It blossomed and his sidearm emerged. Raising it as he had done many times before, he spoke the words more out habit than necessity.
"Dead or alive, your coming with me." And he fired.

Later they would speak and sing and mime:

"A can once filled with corn so sweet,
perched on a post under the Missouri heat.
Dimpled skin, jagged edges; rusted rivers over it flowed,
It had served its purpose; it had carried its life load.
Yet, of something special it still became aware,
A stirring, goosebumbs, a neck with prickled hair.
Red bullets tore through without concern, pause or stop.
The return of a hero. Half man. Half machine. All cop."