[b]Bang. [/b] [b]Bang. [/b] [b]Bang. [/b] [i]Three shots rang out in an aggressive trio, finding their places amongst the spines of three capturers. The first bullet found its mark in the back of the one with the flamethrower, forcing him to fall in pain. The second one traveled through the air and collided with the tailbone of another, making him fall face-first and drop his gun, which impacted the ground and shot a bullet into his head. And the third was reserved for none other than someone who had just watched his friends get killed or injured, and the bullet traveled through his throat and into the part of the spine that connected to his skull. The shooter had approached the man with the flamethrower from behind, now in visible sight. It was a cowboy, dressed up in a tattered and torn duster with a matching brown hat sitting on top of his head. He extended his left hand out and grabbed the shoulder of the man, flipping him over with a blackened, skeletal grip. The man faced the machine and he put his iron grip around the throat, lifting the capturer up into the air. A gout of fire spewed forth from the cowboy; The flamer's face dropped onto the floor below, where the cowboy dropped him. The man reloaded his revolver and put it back in one of the two holster belts on his hips, before looking to the hooded one. The man in the hood would see an intense gaze staring him down, an electric blue thousand yard stare that came from a grizzled man, which was clear from both the dirt and light scarring on the cowboys face to the rough brown beard he had on him, and even the clothes he wore beneath his duster - a pair of jeans and a white shirt, both dirtied slightly and faded - and let's not forget the arsenal on him, consisting of revolvers, shotguns, rifles, lassos, and a plethora of other tools. But the cowboy didn't make a move, he just stared. [/i]