The wind carried dust through the empty street as Marshal Tate stepped onto the porch of the saloon. Across from him, Will Grady stood, hand resting on his revolver.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Tate said.
Will smiled bitterly. “Didn’t have a choice.”
“That so?” Tate’s eyes stayed steady. “Your brother killed my wife, Will. Law says he hangs. You aiming to stop that?”
Will flexed his fingers. “He ain’t a killer. You know that.”
“The jury decided otherwise.”
Will exhaled, drawing his gun. Tate’s shot was faster. Will stumbled, dropped to his knees, choking on breath.
Tate holstered his revolver. “You’re not the judge, Will. Neither am I.”
Will fell forward, still. As the church bell tolled in the distance, Tate turned, stepping back into the shadows of his office, where the gallows stood ready.
Leave a Reply