Shit. Shit, shit, SHITSHITSHITSHIT--

"FFF...UCK!! GET OFFA THE ROOF, DAMNIT, KID!"

Jim yelled, clutching his rifle close as he reloaded it, the gun clicking as he took off the safety, reluctantly sticking his sweat-slick head around the corner of the small log cabin his gang had taken refuge in to at least try to spot who's gang had decided to shoot up his men that evening. God, it was probably Mazzanti's boys. His enemy. He had held a personal grudge after Mazzanti, decades ago, had blown up his family's ranch. That was when Jim turned to a life of crime.

His terrible, emotional backstory. He didn't really have time to think about that right now, because he had just gotten tackled.

"HEY- GIT OFFA ME, GODDAMN-- FUCKIN'--"

He thrashed around and yelled, as if that would make his attacker "git offa him". Spoiler, it didn't.

Jim fumbled to pull out his revolver, cussing all the while.