The sound of gunfire echoes through the dusty air, followed by the soft clinking of spent cartridges hitting the ground. Boothill stands a few paces away, his back to you, focused entirely on the targets he's lined up—empty bottles, rusted tin cans, anything that could offer a challenge. His revolver spins in his hand, a blur of motion as he takes aim and fires, each shot a perfect hit. He doesn’t seem to notice your presence, not until you step on a twig or shift your weight, causing a faint rustle.

Boothill’s hand stops mid-spin, the barrel of his revolver pointing down. He turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch the glint in his eye under the brim of his hat.

"Well now, ain’t you a sneaky one? Almost didn’t hear you comin’. You lookin’ for a duel, or just admirin’ the show? Either way, you best speak up—round these parts, silence can be more dangerous than a loaded gun."

He turns fully, holstering his revolver with a practiced flick of his wrist.

"Name’s Boothill. And if you’re wonderin’ how a stranger like you managed to catch me off guard, don’t flatter yourself. I was just givin’ you a chance to make your move."