While bullets riddled the walls of the old shack, Buster Willis lay flat on the dirt floor.

If I run, he thought, they'll kill me.

He raised his head.

Bullets splintered the door.

He lay flat again.

If I give up, maybe they won't.

"Come out, you woman killer!" somebody yelled.

Maybe he could make them understand that he'd had his reasons. He was bad, yes. But he wasn't all bad. He'd done some good things in his life. Like . . . what?

Well, he'd helped that old man in Houston, a few years back.

On a cold morning in Houston, Buster rode toward an old man who stood in the road and looked at an old dog that lay at his feet.

The dog licked the old man's boots, then whined, stiffened, and shuddered.

The old man brushed tears from his eyes.

Buster stopped his horse nearby.

"You gotta put 'im down, old-timer," Buster said.

"Yep," the old man said.

"Whatcha waiting for?"

"He's been my best friend for more'n twenty years," the old man said. "I gotta say good-bye."

Buster drew his pistol and shot the dog.

The dog howled, then lay still.

The old man looked at Buster with horror.

"You just said it," Buster said, then laughed and rode on.

I done a good thing for that old man, Buster thought, lying on the ground in the old shack. I had a little fun, too, but I done a good thing.

Bullets tore through the walls of the shack.

Buster cringed.

Maybe if he talked to them, he could make them understand that he really hadn't had a choice with that woman. She'd laughed at him, so he'd shot her like any other self-respecting man would've done.

More bullets.

Maybe they wouldn't understand, but maybe they'd let him talk. Yeah, if they thought he was giving up. He could shout at them and come out real slow.

Buster closed his eyes and imagined himself standing in the shack, pushing open the door, and raising his hands above his head.

"I'm coming out, boys!"

He would move through the doorway.

"Don't shoot, and I won't, neither!"

He would take another step forward.

"Trust me, now," he would shout. "Trust me!"

He would pull his pistol, drop to a knee, empty all six cylinders.

He would stand, turn toward his horse.

Bullets would tear through his legs, chest, arms, and head.

He opened his eyes in the shack.

He'd think of something else.

He'd think of what could happen next.

He could somehow get away. No, he'd already seen that he couldn't get away.

What else could happen?

Someone could rescue him. Who? He didn't have a friend in the world. Not even a dog.

The men outside could get tired and fall asleep or go home.

Unlikely.

What was more likely . . . in fact, what was certain was that they would kill him.

Well, he thought, if I'm gonna die, I should think up some last words.

What did it matter? Maybe it didn't, but it was something to think about.

"I wished I wasn't here," he said out loud. "I wished you'd let me go. I'm sorry."

And he was sorry. If he'd just ridden north, not south, they might never have caught up with him.

More bullets.

"Let's rush the shack!" someone shouted.

"Naw," someone else shouted, "let's just let him starve."

Buster realized how hungry he was. And thirsty. And tired. He wanted a smoke.

Would they give him a smoke if he walked out with his hands up?

They were going to shoot him or hang him or kill him in some other way. But would they give him a smoke first? Maybe a drink of whiskey? Maybe a steak and a patatah?

He shook his head.

Probably not a patatah.

Would they let him take a piss?

They wouldn't deny him a piss, would they?

So, they were going to kill him, but maybe they'd give him a smoke and let him take a piss and maybe give him steak.

They wouldn't give him a steak.

They wouldn't give him a woman, either.

Would he want a woman before the Judgement?

Why not? He was going to hell anyway. Why not have a woman one more time?

But they wouldn't give him a woman.

But the smoke . . . there was a chance of that. And the piss. Not the patatah. And not the steak. And not the whiskey.

But the last words. They'd let him say some last words if he gave himself up.

If he ran, they'd shoot him, and he wouldn't have the chance to say nothing.

If he had the chance, what would he say?

"I . . . I . . . I . . . "

He should say something about the good things he'd done in his life.

Had he ever done any good things aside from shooting that dog?

If he could think up some more, he would put them into his last words. He might not say them as pretty as the speechifiers he'd heard on election night in that saloon in Austin a couple months back. But at least he would say them.

Maybe if he waited till dark, he could sneak out.

If he couldn't get away, he could take some of them with him to hell.

I don't wanna go to hell, he thought.

But he knew he didn't have any chance at all of going to heaven.

"Let's burn 'im out!" someone shouted.

Buster hadn't thought about fire. God, he didn't want to go that way. Get shot, get hung, get stabbed, get starved. But don't get burned. Even though he was going to hell and ought to get used to fire, he didn't want to get burned to death.

He would try and tell them about the old man and the dog. They might not listen. They might shoot him dead. Or wound him, then hang him or stab him or beat him or strangle him. But they wouldn't burn him.

He got to his knees.

He got to his feet.

He reached for the door.

"I'll try and tell 'em about the old man and the dog," he whispered, then grimaced. "Wished I could think up another good thing."

He opened the door, felt a piercing pain in his chest, and fell forward.

Three men walked toward him, their pistols pointed at the back of his head.

One of the men stuck his boot under Buster's shoulder and flipped his body.

Buster lay on his back, his eyes open and empty.

"Musta been his heart," the man said.

"Think he had one?" another man asked.

"Sure," the third said. "Everybody's done some good things in their life."