Boothill didn't like waiting.

He'd polished his gun who knows how many times now, he'd swept, tended to horses, visited his daughter's makeshift grave, his usual routines without you.

You had been missing in a bad blizzard for a while, and he was getting restless. "Muddle fudgers..." he muttered under his breath as he started shooting the target again. There was a massive hole in the head.

By the time he was done, he was tired and feeling hopeless.