The Gunfight

Black Jack Carlton was dangerous, no two ways about it. 

Even on the best of days this would be true , but today word had filtered to him that Sandy Conover had been making a play for his girl.  Considering his reputation with the sidearm holstered on his hip it hardly seemed likely, but certainly no disputing the facts..  Black Jack pulled his hat low over his eyes and stepped out on the street.  He needed to go find out.  He needed to set things right.

In his world reputation was everything.  A challenge left unheeded, a gauntlet left lying in the dust, and he'd become fair game for every fast kid looking to make a name for themselves.  Fear had always been his only protection.  Fear of a reputation duly earned and jealously protected.

He looked both ways down the quiet, even peaceful street.  No danger hung in the air like a black, ominous cloud, but he felt like there should have been.

His spurs jingled like tiny wind chimes as he headed down the walk.  His hand stayed close to the butt of his weapon.  A fast draw was essential, but accuracy made the difference.  The first man to fire would not always be the last man standing.

Was she worth this, Miss Jane of the golden hair and sparkling blue eyes?  Maybe.  And maybe it wasn't even about her.  Maybe it was just about the challenge, the challenge he could not let stand.

He reached the cross street and looked both ways cautiously before he stepped out where he could be seen.  He removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his red bandanna before he retied it around his neck.  Where could Conover be?  Hiding, probably.  He didn't have a reputation as a back shooter, but who knew the true colors anybody would show when it got right down to it.

He crossed the street, keeping careful vigil . . . then he saw him.  The young cowpoke with the sandy hair that had given him his name stepped out on the walk and squared himself to face Black Jack.

"You looking for me?" a carefree grin shone on Sandy's face.

Black Jack wasn't impressed by the bravado.  He'd seen it many times before.  "You know I am."

"I heard."

"Why'd you do it, Sandy?  You had to know I'd come."

"You think I'm scared of you?"

"You should be."

Sandy toyed with the butt of his own weapon.  "I don't think you're that fast."

"One way to find out."

They began to walk toward one another, hands hovering over their weapons, eyes locked.  The steps were slow and sure.  As the distance decreased, the likelihood of getting hit increased.  One would soon lose their nerve and draw.  Sandy's hand started to move.

"Jackie!"

Both froze.

"Yeah Mom."

"You get in the house this instant.  When your father finds out you kids have been shooting slingshots at each other again he's going to wear out his belt on you."