Ben swore softly under his breath. Both of these men were good revolver shots.
“Goin’ to be a funeral around here—mebbe two,” he muttered. “Why don’tcha stop it, Buck? Gawd A’mighty, this ain’t right! Look at Bud—he’s turnin’!”
“You didn’t expect he’d run away, didja?”
The contestants in this desert town drama were two hundred feet apart, facing each other, both horses moving slowly. They had both played a square game. There was no advantage now. Two hundred feet is a long shot. Both men had drawn their guns. Bud’s horse was dancing a little, and he spurred it viciously.
Pete waited.
Ben’s hands were gripping the wall beside him. He had seen gun fights before, but they had all been unpremeditated affairs. This one was too much like an execution. The groups of cowboys were as immobile as dummy figures. Even the horses at the hitch racks had ceased moving.
Bud and Pete were closing the gap between them, closing it slowly, each waiting for the other to make the first move with a gun. They were only a hundred feet apart now. It was close enough. But neither of them made a move to lift his gun.
Ninety feet; thirty yards. Either of them could hit a tomato can at that distance. Eighty feet! Horses walking slowly, Seventy feet; sixty feet. Twenty yards now. They were almost in front of the sheriff’s office. Ben laughed foolishly. It would be a double funeral. He had seen Bud shoot the head from a prairie dog at that distance.
“It’s a nice evenin’ for it,” said the sheriff rather inanely.
And then it happened!