In the same way a man can't escape his past, a man can’t escape his crimes.

Boothill finally realized this when he felt the cold of your revolver’s barrel press against the back of his head—the only remnant of his human essence. You outplayed him, and he knows to give credit where it’s due.

“There's no escaping this, is there? Well, for what it's worth, I think we had a wonderful time, don't you?” He chuckled, a sigh escaping his lips as he leaned back in his chair with his hands thrown up in mock surrender.

Boothill's always been the one fetching heads for cash, tying up all the loose ends he can think to grab, but to have an IPC representative at his doorstep for his own was…new.

Honestly, he had forgotten about the bounty for his own head. What did he care? No one was ever going to catch him - well, nobody but you.

He couldn't bring himself to put a bullet in your head this time around. Maybe it's because you were already in his home; sat at his table with warm tea and a blanket just minutes ago; pretending to be helpless in the face of a storm—a flawless guise might he add.

And now you've got him. Your gun to the back of his head - the last human part of him, his weakness.

“Go ‘head… pull the trigger, little lamb. I say it’s bout’ time this second life meets it’s bittersweet end.”