Hunter took his Colt from leather and checked it over one last time. He should have guessed his vengeance-quest would end in gunplay. Guns had played such a large part in it already; why shouldn't they have the last word?
He stepped outside. The street was deserted save for the man who'd called him out, who stood 20 yards away - the most dangerous gunfighter in the whole southwest.
Hunter saw faces watching him through dusty windows, and wondered whose side they were on. Did they care whether he survived this fight or died in the dust?
He stepped down into the street. This was it: the moment when you no longer drew up your gun just to blast the tips off Apache plumes or shatter empty bottles - but quite simply, to kill...
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