Who is the Gunman?

Sunday.

Citizens POV

         Church let out at twelve, as usual, and people walked to their homes.

Some had come into town from their ranches and headed out in their wagons.

One man was never seen in church, however, and his name was Maxwell Donahue.

The town's banker.

Everyone called his establishment Highwayman's Bank and, no parent would even demand their child to show the slightest bit of respect toward him.

Every day, Maxwell was found in the back room and counting money or going over the books and accounts.

He'd arrive at the bank every morning at seven and leave at one in the afternoon.

He hated that no one ever comes in on Sunday. He hated that no one was respectful toward him and constantly shouted at people for ignoring him.

He closed and locked the bank door that afternoon before heading for his wagon.

A boy bumped into him by mistake and Maxwell shouted.

"Are you trying to rob me boy? I'll cut you, little bastard!"

He drew a knife and knelt down to "teach the boy a lesson" but, before he could do anything else, a single gunshot rang out.

Anyone who knew firearms would know that there is only one brand of handgun with that booming voice followed by a loud ping. . .

The voice of a Devoire Charlatan revolver.

Maxwell Donahue slumped to the ground, the bullet had gone straight through his neck, close enough to the vertebrae to fatally damage the spinal cord.

The boy scrambled to get away as people gathered to see what happened.

"Did that boy shoot him?" A woman asked, not realizing that she'd sealed the boys fate with that one question.

A man with his face half scarred from severe burns said.

"No way. Look at the dirt. The boy was in front of him but the blood. . ."

"Shut up! Shut up now, you ogre! That boy killed my husband! He will pay for this."

Margaret Donahue was actually smiling with the glee of a greedy bully that found one hundred dollars in a victim's pocket.

"That boys family will pay!"

"No one cared about him enough, not even the judge." Another woman laughed.

"Shut up, you harlot! How dare you!?"

Margaret was about to slap the young woman, but she grabbed Margaret's wrist so tightly and in a way that she would suffer permanent nerve damage along with a completely crushed wrist.

"You really should learn to pick your fights better, Margaret."

"You're Julie Sanders, right?"

"No. I'm her cousin. I just happened to be visiting when I watched that wretched bastard get shot."

"What's your name?"

"Sheridan Price. First Officer of the U.S.S. Nautilus."

"YOU?"

"Yes, which means anything legally done, to me, must be taken up with a federal court."

A giant of a man walked up and said.

"That's quite enough, Commander Price."

Margaret ran up to the overly tall man.

"That woman broke my wrist!"

"I'll break more than that if you don't get out of my way, you looney old bat. Do I make myself clear?"

The woman ran to the doctor and asked for his help.

True to his professional pride, he did the best he possibly could, but she would never be able to use her right hand again.