High-Noon Countdown

I scrambled out of my mitten bunk and marched straight down the kitchen counter, stopping dead in my tracks before a rogue hourglass. That little wooden-framed sand timer was squatting beside the pepper mill, letting loose a steady stream of fine white sand like high noon ticking away in the badlands! No desert clock out-stares a frontier sheriff. I planted my boots firm on the countertop, leveled my gaze beneath my wide brim, and hovered my hand over my trusty orange blaster. The split second that final grain trickled through the glass neck, I whipped my blaster up and delivered a victorious tap to the wooden cap. Showdown won with zero seconds to spare, partner!