The trailsman stopped in the center of the dusty street. Ten paces separated him from his opponent. The sun glared overhead, casting deep shadows under the brims of their weather beaten hats. The backs of their shirts were stiff with dried sweat-salt, the centers wet and clinging with new perspiration.
Their hands twitched as they hovered over the pistol grips; ready to strike snake-like. The offence had been slight but the whiskey and the watching women made the situation deadly. More rot-gut was downed and after a few quick asides to either the whores or the other saddle tramps, they all pushed outside. Into the blazing sun. The dust. The wind.
Their eyes met . . . and held. Each man waiting for the other to move first. To satisfy the code. To prove he was faster. Somehow more worthy of life. Rope-like muscles played and flexed under sun darkened skin as their fingers tattooed an unheard melody in the air . . . inches from their guns . . . waiting . . . watching.
A blackbird suddenly took flight; its great wings flapping noisily between the men. One man, the younger one, was startled into action. His hand was a blur as it found the pistol grip, smoothly whipping the gun up and out of the worn holster, bringing the barrel forward, thumb cocking and finger pulling the trigger simultaneously . . . shooting from the hip.
He was fast. God help him he needed to be. But his shot went wide as his opponent stepped forward and turned sideways, presenting a smaller target in a different place. As he did so, the second gunman was more deliberate than his rival, his draw was still lightening quick but he brought his arm straight up, paused a split second to aim, and fired. Finding his mark.
The first man spun around, grabbing his upper arm, as he tumbled into the dusty street. He lay, unmoving as the victor walked forward, cautiously, boots crunching small pebbles amid puffs of dust. The skin creased at the corners of his deep blue eyes as he spit in the dirt next to the fallen man. For the second time in a minute, his hand moved lightening quick as he grabbed the other man's wrist and yanked, bringing the "corpse: to his feet.
"Damn it, Frank." the wounded man complained. "Ma is gonna have your hide for ruinin' another shirt." He fingered the bloody crease high on his upper arm. "And that stings like hell!"
"Then quit shootin' yer mouth off in front of the whores." He told his kid brother. But then something like admiration slipped into his voice as he draped his arm over the smaller man's shoulder and conceded, "You almost got me that time, Jesse. You almost got me."
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