Ford

His six-shooter hung off his waist abruptly, as if it were hanging itself. As he walked, the gun clanked against his legs and made sounds difficult to impersonate.

He walked into the saloon and directed himself to the bar. He needed a strong drink. To remember. To forget. Maybe just to stay alive. He sat proudly, as if the world already knew of his accomplishment. But no one knew. Not yet. James' death had not reached town yet.

He ordered a whiskey and lit a cigar. He didn't like to smoke- made him sick. But he felt as though he should.

He keeps his overcoat on, lest he draw attention to his blood splattered shirt. He closes his eyes- and sees Jesse's head pull his body to the ground violently, on account of the extra weight from the bullet that just entered.

He will become a hero- a name remembered in history. Robert Ford- the man who killed the criminal Jesse James. But that would not happen. Cowards are not remembered. Not him.

Ford knew he was meant for great things, and often told those around him so they couldn't forget.

His mind goes back to him and Jesse in that room. Jesse had been acting strange. lost. That glimmer had left his eyes as if his past had finally caught up with him. Jesse James was becoming human. He laid down his guns, which he never did, and turned around. Ford lifted his gun and with the gentleness of a nuclear bomb, inserted one shot into the back of Jesse's skull.

Ford began to think how he will tell the story- what details to excite the story, what details would dull. Someone would probably write a book in his honor. Make him rich. Something as great as this doesn't go unnoticed or unrewarded.

He his six-shooter from its cradle, and lays it on the bar. He inspects it carefully, as if he was melting the bright nickel with his eyes. It was a gift. A gift from Jesse. As an apology for believing Ford to betraying him. Ford remembered how he used to dream to be Jesse James. But those dreams had been traded in for simple fame. However- that fame did not come with the affection he thought deserved.

Robert ford did not look the part of an outlaw. His clothes hung off him strangely. His coat did not fit him, as it should a hero or outlaw.

It was the only evidence needed.