He whistles low and loud, staring across the little picket line. Shouldn't be too difficult. He spins the chamber of the revolver and, with a smirk on his lips, lines up his shot.

"Ready."

Six shots, neat in a row, and six of the scarecrows drop almost immediately. Which means there are two left, more in the field. He quickly empties the spent rounds, letting the casings drop down to his feet and pulling out some more rounds from his belt.

"You're up, big guy!"