The wind carried dust through the quiet street as Marshal Tate stood over the fallen man. Boone Wheeler, the outlaw who had gunned down Tate’s brother years ago, lay bleeding in the dirt, his pistol just out of reach.
Boone coughed, smirking despite the pain. “Go on, Tate. Finish it.”
The townsfolk watched in silence. Tate’s hand trembled over his holster. He had chased Boone across three states for this moment.
“You think I won’t?” Tate said, voice low.
Boone chuckled weakly. “I know you will.”
Tate exhaled, his fingers curling, then relaxing. He stepped back. “Doctor,” he called. “See to him.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Boone’s smirk faltered.
“You ain’t gonna kill me?”
“No,” Tate said. “But you’ll swing fair and proper.”
As the doctor knelt beside Boone, Tate turned toward the jailhouse, moving past the watching eyes. He holstered his gun. Some things were harder than revenge.
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