My teammates moved from cover to cover, taking advantage of stacked crates and flour sacks piled in the street. The cattle rustlers took to the balconies, trying to pick off the lawmen as they pushed forward to the gold stash. I decided to go around behind the town, figuring there would be at least one like-minded rustler to meet me. Surprisingly, I was in the clear, and I ran halfway across the map and ducked into an alley to get the drop on the rustlers. As expected, I found myself in the position to open fire on three enemies who were none the wiser. I got two of ‘em.
The third noticed me - whether by seeing the shot vectors or seeing me on the radar I don’t know (the Schofield revolver is not a very quiet gun) - and he started banging away in my direction with his carbine. I did the only thing I could: I took two running steps to my left and busted through the double doors of the General Store of Tumbleweed. The quick action saved my bacon, at least for the time being. I found the back door and hasted in full retreat.
About this time our team had captured two bags of gold; the rustlers began to advance more aggressively. One manned a gatling gun that was fixed in place around the back where I was snooping around. The chatter of gatling fire preceded my quick and rather dramatic death flop. Someone else must have fallen to it as well, because I heard them say, “Distract that gatling gun!”
At that point I felt like the entire game rested on my gray-duster-adorned shoulders; the team was counting on someone to take immediate and unwise action - my forté! I imagined my character huffing on his silver badge and polishing it with his sleeve as I turned the corner from the respawn area and opened fire on the gatling emplacement.
Ha! Despite having a solid lead for over half the match, and despite our strength in numbers...we lost. And yet I felt like I had won the very west itself. There’s something about filling a role that makes team-based combat so cooperative feeling. If that role can include a rustic moustache, spurs, and a six-gun...well, let’s just say that sleep is overrated. And dinner. And everything.