The dry wind carried the sound of hoofbeats as Sheriff Calloway rode into the town of Red Bluff. Dust swirled around the lone figure who waited for him in the middle of the street, black hat pulled low and a Colt gleaming on his hip. Folks watched from behind shutters, silent.
“You’re late, Calloway,” drawled the outlaw. His voice was calm, but his fingers twitched near the revolver.
“Had to bury a boy you shot down in Elm Creek,” Calloway replied, stepping off his horse. He didn’t unholster his sidearm, just walked forward, spurs jangling. “Seventeen. Didn’t even shave yet.”
The outlaw’s jaw tightened. “He drew first.”
Calloway stopped ten paces away. “You gonna say the same about me?”
For a fleeting moment, doubt flickered across the outlaw’s face. Then his hand moved. Six paces later, he folded to the dirt, clutching his chest as blood darkened the earth.
Calloway holstered his gun, turned his back on the crowd, and rode out of town.
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