By
V. A. Glover
The first shot took him high in the chest, tearing muscle and bone, knocking him over. The big man rolled in the dirt, trying to line up his gun. The second and third shots sounded almost as one and drove him off his elbow and back into the dirt. Everything went black for the man in spite of the brilliant, blistering sun directly above. His body went slack and his chest became a splotch of spreading crimson stain which darkened the edges of the badge pinned to the left shirt pocket.
Two men walked slowly toward the figure in the dusty street, guns drawn, still apprehensive, for this man had a reputation that chilled the guts. It was as though they could not believe they had done what everyone said could not be done: Ely Dane could not be beaten with a gun. Well, proof was lying there in the dust. Eric Miller and Waco Bates had put the big man down. They grinned at each other, holding back an insane urge to yell wildly.
The fight had not been fair, but that was of little concern to them. You didn't fight fair with a man like Dane. That was suicide. Miller had faced Dane in the middle of the street and Bates had hidden in the alley. Even then, the big man had heard the click of the hammer drawn back in the alley and had his gun out and a shot triggered in that direction before Miller was able to fire his gun. If the slender killer had not been standing in the shadows, the marshal's bullet would hit the killer square in his chest instead of the wooden post to his left.
Men were coming out of the saloon and the stores, cautious, fearful, but drawn with that murky sense of curiosity all men seem to have in common when it comes to death. A few women could be seen peeking from behind curtains. A handful of children, all boys, had slipped away from the watchful eye of mother and crept along the sides of the street, eyes taking everything in, missing nothing.
Bates and Miller moved away, careful, wary, with eyes darting towards every movement. Steadily, they made towards their horses. As they were mounting, a man stepped out from an open doorway and without warning, opened up on the pair with a shotgun. The blast took Miller off his horse and some of the shot found Bates. Then, before the man with the shotgun could move around the corner to shelter, Bates placed two shots into the man's back. Charlie Taylor, long-time friend of Ely Dane, coughed once, staggered to the side of the building, then slid down, smearing the whitewash with his blood. Bates roweled his horse and disappeared down the street in a dead run.
It took three days for the posse to capture Bates. They were so incensed with the little killer and he was so defiant with them when they captured him that the men slung a rope over a nearby tree and hung him. After a brief argument about taking the body back, they left him hanging.
It was more than a month before Marshal Dane could walk about unassisted. He finally reached the point where he could make it to the front porch of the hotel. Then, for two months, Dane sat on the porch watching life flow about him, soaking up the sun and resting in the big chair placed there especially for him. He reflected on life, his in particular, wondering often what his course would now be. He spent little time conversing with anyone. It was obvious to all that Ely Dane wanted no company and had no interest in discussing the shootout. He sat and whittled and thought, refusing conversation with all who approached him.
He'd never been a man to run to trouble but it seemed to gravitate to him. At sixteen, he had taken a man-sized job riding drag on a cattle drive to Kansas. That drive had been the worst experience of his life. He was shot at, attacked by Indians, and there were two stampedes. Trail drives he made later were mild by comparison.
That first drive also gave him his first lessons with a six-gun. An old Texas Ranger who'd rode across much of Texas with that drive, took a shine to Ely and taught Dane many things, especially about tracking a man and how to use a gun. The Ranger was looking for a certain outlaw and was sure he would try and jump the drive somewhere along the way. Although the outlaw hadn't showed, Ely had made a friend. Two years later that old Ranger, just before he'd quit the Rangers to ramrod a Texas spread, had recruited Dane for the Rangers.
After a few years of hard riding, more gun fights than he cared to recall and two close calls with the Apache, Dane gave up the life of Texas Ranger. He'd accepted an offer as marshal of Two Spur, Texas, just north of the border, snugged up close to the foothills and only a day's ride from the New Mexico Territory. It had been a welcome respite. He not missed a meal since taking the job and seldom had to make any long rides. He'd run some Comancheros out of town soon after taking the job, arrested a few drunken cowboys and in the first month on the job, had shot it out with a genuine hardcase, a Kansas City gunman by the name of Blythe Kelsie.
Now, four years almost to the day he'd taken the job, Dane knew things could never be the same again. Something had happened to him out there in that hot, blistering, dirty street. He knew deep down inside some change had taken place. He didn't know what but he knew he was not the same man.
That day in the street, Dane had known he was about to die and the thought had been totally unacceptable to him. In the instant the first shot hit him his mind had shrieked in rebellion. That instant had unlocked Dane's fears and had not yet receded. That fear that had come welling up within him was no longer in its place, buried deep and controlled and kept under as before. He couldn't understand it, but he knew that thinking of that moment in the street brought a shaking to his hands and a queasy feeling to his guts. The easy, professional air of a man sure of himself and of his weapons and his ability to handle them was not a part of Ely Dane any longer. Dane was no longer sure of anything, least of all himself.
Another month went by. Dane gave up the job as marshal. A man called Red Levy who acted as his deputy now and then took over the job. He was a good man and proficient. Dane thought he would handle most problems well. He wasn't too sure of Levy's ability to handle some of the really bad stuff, but those kind of things were few and far between and with a little luck the man would never have to face anything really serious. The man had taken the job and that was all that mattered to Dane. No one questioned Dane's decision to quit, at least not to Dane. But word quickly spread and the matter was discussed in depth in every house and line shack within fifty miles. Most of the men agreed that something had happened to Dane, that there was something different about him. If ever a man had been born to be a lawman, Dane was one. For him to quit was unthinkable. It was a very strange thing to the men. The women argued that it was a wise decision. In their opinion, the man had only shown good sense.
Perhaps the debate was best summarized by a brief argument in Elmer Skedd's General Store. Martha, the matronly wife of a local rancher, made her argument with old man Skedd. She stood at the counter staring defiantly at Elmer Skedd, one hand on her ample hip, the other patting a bolt of calico as she spoke.
"I say if Ely wants to quit, then we ought to give him the help and support he needs. He needed that time on his back to realize he's used up all his chances. A man can't go on forever getting shot at and not get killed. You men want him to put that gun back on and get his-self killed."
"Martha, that may be true, but we all know Ely Dane. There ain't a better man with a gun and none braver than him in the whole of Texas. Why, he's been in this work almost since he was a youngster. Man spends that much time servin' the law, he don't go callin' it quits like that. Not when he's as young as Dane. I say there's something heavy on Ely's mind, Might be he's tired of killin'." He paused a long moment, looked away at the row of axe handles on one wall, then added softly, "Or something." He turned quickly and jerked at a large bag lying on the floor behind the counter and swung it up onto the counter.
Martha glared at the storekeeper and said, "Why don't you go on and say what you really think, Elmer Skedd! You think he's lost his nerve. Isn't that so? Just because a man doesn't want to kill anymore and wants to live a little longer, you men have to think he's a coward."
"That may be so, Martha. It sure is a lot closer to the truth than the wash you been hangin' out, though. I ain't said he was a coward. Just maybe he ain't the man he was, that's all."
Martha gave a huff and, with compressed lips and fire in her eyes, strode out of the store. Elmer smiled for he knew the blustery woman would return. Old Bill liked those dried apples too much to let her leave them on account of an argument. Life went slowly but surely in Two Spur.
Dane mended in body but not in mind. He stopped wearing the black holster which sheathed his Colt .45. He'd worn a gun almost all his life and now it was strange not to wear it. It was almost like going without his pants. He gave up the daily practice sessions as well. And he found himself developing a twitch to his left eye, as well as a habit of rubbing his thigh where the gun should be resting. But the weeks dragged on and he refused to wear the gun or even handle it. Somehow, the thought of strapping on the gun sent cold chills into his gut and made him breath shallow. He continued to sit in the sun and whittle, waiting for time to mend the tear deep within and to melt the shadows that lurked inside his mind.
And then the wolves came.The first to arrive was a dour, used-up little man, no longer wanted by the state of Texas, or anyone else, for that matter. He'd served seven long bitter years on account of Dane and another Ranger. He'd made a promise to "get Dane" when he got out, but almost two years had passed since he was released and he hadn't made the try. The reason he hadn't was because "Mule" Smith was one of those "safe" men. His killings were always from the back. At heart, Smith was as cowardly as they came. Ely Dane had put the fear of God in him and even trying to back-shoot a man like Dane was not a prospect Smith relished. But he simply had to find out if the tale he'd heard was true.
Smith pulled his horse to the side of the street and swung off, flipping the reins around the hitching rail expertly. Dane was resting in his usual place, late in the evening, the sun a giant rivet of red and orange, throwing long shadows down the dusty street. It was the seventh month of his recovery and although he was still sore in the shoulder, he felt as strong physically as he ever had.
Dane watched with narrowed eyes as the little man swung off his horse, There was something familiar about the man but Dane could not place him. Seven years and as many tons of broken rocks in a prison yard had made some permanent changes in Mule's face and carriage.
The man crossed the street and walked up to Dane. "Ely Dane. Hear you ain't a marshal any more."
Dane frowned, not liking the stranger's easy, almost contemptuous manner. The friendliness was a facade, he knew. He said, "You have me at a disadvantage, stranger. I don't place you."
A smile flickered over Mule's face. He leaned close and the man's breath caused Dane to draw back. "Dane, it's your old friend, Mule Smith. How could you forget me? It ain't been more'n nine year since you sent me away."
Dane's eyes widened with recognition, then froze with that sudden jolt of fear that realization gave him. The man was here to kill him. He'd promised. Now, he'd come.
"I ... uh ... how are you Smith?"
The nervousness disappeared totally from Mule. He'd been unsure until now. The smell of fear was unmistakable. Smith had watched too many men in prison and had wrestled with that demon himself for too many years of his life. He knew fear when he saw it. Fear had an unmistakable look and smell to it. Ely Dane was scared and the stories were true.
"Dane, I've come to kill you. I'd do it now, only I want to give you time to feel it in your guts. Tomorrow at this time, right here, I'm goin' to shoot you right in your guts." The dust-covered man stepped back, scratched idly at what was probably a flea, then added, "Don't you be runnin' out on old Mule now." He turned, laughing as he left, leaving a pale and shaken Dane.
The big man had wondered what he would do if such a thing happened. He'd fooled himself by saying it wouldn't happen, that if he didn't wear a gun no one would ever challenge him, that his reputation would prevent it from happening. But here was one of the most cowardly outlaws Dane had ever captured, bracing him and doing it with the arrogance of' a real gunman. But Dane knew Mule Smith was no gunman. His style was from the back. Dane's jaw clenched and the sweat crawled onto his forehead as the shame and frustration came over him. And always, the fear in his belly, cold and malignant, gnawing like a disease, reaching up into his brain and sending him death whispers. He trembled all over, shook himself and stumbled through his door and staggered up to his room, the fear clutching at him like ghostly hands trying to draw him into the darkness. Dane huddled in a chair in his room long into the night. His eyes never closed once the entire night.
The next morning two new horses were in town, stabled and fed. One was a long-legged, rangy bay with a Texas rig hanging on the stall beside it. The other was a saddle-sore brown mare, underfed and much abused. It wasn't common to see a horse used so badly. The boy who took the mare in and grained it knew one thing about the owner instantly. It was something his daddy had taught him early. He'd looked at him one morning as they were putting the horses into the corral and said, "Son, a man who is mean to his horse is low down mean to humans, too. Never trust such a man. He'll treat you as badly as he does his horse." Little Tate Williams understood that the owner of that horse was a mean man.
Tate Whendol and Jake Moffit were two of the worst ever to ride across the state of Texas. Whendol was just a kid but already he had slain three men, and some said a Ranger from ambush, though the truth was that Whendol had found the man dead and later boasted to some friends that he'd taken the Ranger down. He was a sudden kind of man, given to violent out-bursts of temper and capable of murdering a man on the slightest provocation. Whendol was not a kind man, not even to his horse, driving it until it was used up, then stealing another.
Moffit was different. He was by far, the more dangerous of the pair. He was not capable of the explosive emotions that drove Whendol. In fact, it was said of the slender gray-haired killer that he was not capable of emotions at all. There was nothing exaggerated or pretentious about the man. He cared for his horse, choosing only the finest horses to carry him for he knew his life depended on having a well-cared for mount. It wasn't that he had any affection for the animal. But he understood the absolute necessity of having a well fed and watered horse that wouldn't quit on you when life was in the balance. He was openly contemptuous of Whendol's treatment of his own horse, knowing it was likely the kid would one day be caught and hung simply because he was too stupid and snake-mean to take proper care of his horse.
Moffit was not the kind of man to make a brag or take a dare or issue a challenge. He was not reckless and had walked away from more than one man in order to keep from fighting. It was not lack of courage that moved him to walk away from those men. It was just not in his nature to fight unless something was in it for him, like preserving his life, satisfying a personal matter, or money. He was in Two Spur because of the latter.
A complete stranger had paid him fifty dollars and would give him a hundred more if he put Ely Dane away for keeps. He'd picked up Whendol as insurance and as a way of discovering whether the tales he'd heard of Dane's courage were true. Whendol had been cuffed about once by Dane and was more than eager to ride to Two Spur, especially when he heard of Dane's loss of nerve.
The day Ely Dane was to die wore on slowly, the heat mounting to inferno-like intensity, then tapering off, like a big oven that had the fire dampened. In his room, Dane was sweating, but not from the heat. He'd finally taken to bed, but had laid there staring at the ceiling, wide awake, fear like a paralysis around his body. Now, in the morning light that burst through the window, he paced the floor, agitated and nervous beyond control. Time and again he picked up his gun only to lay it back down again. He could never face Smith. He knew he would shake so badly he'd miss five out of five shots, assuming he even could pull his gun. Yet he could not allow the man to shoot him down and that was exactly what the man promised to do.
He considered running but something even stronger than his fear would not allow that. Finally, less than an hour from the time appointed, Dane blanked his mind, grabbed the gun, dropped it into the holster, belted it on and almost ran out the door. His hands were quivering, and his stomach felt as though it were churning and moving. He was not thinking of what he was doing, for to think about it was to run to the livery and ride out madly. His mind rejected that act almost as strongly as it had rejected dying that time on the street.
The scent of hot dirt, scorched by the sun and blown by the wind beat its way into his senses. He tugged his hat down over his brow, squinted at the heat, then stepped off the boardwalk. He crossed over to the shady side of the street and leaned against a post. The cold he felt was centered in his stomach, the clammy feel of his hands giving the only evidence of the icy emptiness inside. Ely Dane knew his time to die had come.
He waited. Finally a voice, low and whiskey loud sounded from a doorway. "Dane! You ready to die?"
Dane clenched his fists and a tremor ran over his body. He bowed his head and forced the tremor that had started to take hold of his body to subside. He breathed deep until his chest threatened to burst the buttons on his shirt. Had anyone been standing close, they'd have heard a low pitched and quickly trottled whimper of pain coming from Dane's throat. Dane saw the short, squat figure of Mule Smith take the walk and start his way.
Across the street there were a score of watchers. Elmer Shedd and two other townsmen watched together. In answer to a question, Shedd replied quietly, "No, this ain't something we should meddle in. If Ely wanted our help, he'd have asked for it. He knows we'd chase that toad out of town if he'd ask. Ely's got a fight bigger'n that Smith feller. I ain't meddlin'."
Moffit watched closely, too. He was interested in how Dane handled himself. Of everyone watching, only Moffit caught the trembling and the tremor that ran through Dane, covered quickly by the hasty composure. Ely Dane was a broken man, nothing to be feared by any man, not even a Mule Smith. Moffit smiled.
Smith, advancing slowly, was fearful in spite of his knowledge of Dane's nerve. He knew the big man was afraid but Dane's reputation still cowed him inside. And the sight of him standing there almost caused Smith to turn and run. At times like this one remembered Dane's fight while a Ranger with four bank robbers. Dane shot two of the men down in the street and shot it out with the other two in-side the bank building, wounding one and causing the other to surrender. Such things come to mind in a time like this. Smith swallowed hard and then the whiskey grabbed his mind again and stirred the false images of himself and his courage stored deep in the man's mind. Smith continued walking towards Dane boldly, then as he approached with a few feet, he stopped.
The two men eyed each other for a short time, then Dane broke his gaze away, something he'd never done in his life of facing men. The rule was, you looked deep into the other man's eyes, probing and unafraid, seeking to cow him, unnerve him, to calculate his measure. You never looked away, not for an instant, But Dane did.
Smith went for his gun in that instant. That same instant saw another man go for his gun, but it wasn't Dane. Ely Dane stood rigid, great veins standing out on his forehead, eyes wide and bulging, face red with the flush of fear, his mind paralyzed with fear. But Mule Smith never had a chance. The bullet from Moffit's gun struck Smith in the back and hurled him forward onto his face as though he'd been hit with an invisible club.
Dane turned and ran for the hotel. Moffit, smiling as he watched the big man run, holstered his gun and returned to the saloon. He knew Dane's time was short.
An entire week passed without Dane leaving his room, not even for food. He sent out for food on the third day and began took all his meals in his room thereafter, although much of it was wasted for he had trouble keeping his food down.
Some of the men in town tried to stop by and talk with Dane but he refused to see any of them. Finally on the sixth day Dane came out. He hadn't shaved and his eyes were sunken from lack of sleep and little food. He'd lost nearly ten pounds.
Jake Moffit heard of the man's exit from his room almost immediately. He also heard the big man had gone to the barbershop for a shave. Jake shook the drunken Whendol awake from the table where he was sprawled. They headed for the barbershop, Whendol staggering across the street, barely able to walk, still not completely awake.
Dane did not see the door open for his face was wrapped in a hot towel, but he heard it and he heard the sharp intake of the barber's breath. After a long minute's silence, he took away the towel.
"Hello, Dane. See you finally came out of your hole. Thought we were going to have to go in and get you."
"Who are you?" Dane felt that familiar bubbling in his stomach, the tremor that threatened to take over his entire body.
"I'm the man who shot Smith and saved your life, Dane."
Dane relaxed, the fear subsiding. He worked desperately to hold back the tears of relief, suddenly embarrassed at the rush of emotion. He said softly, "I've been sick. I'm obliged to you, stranger."
Moffit grinned and said, "You've been sick, Dane, but that ain't no excuse with me. You ran off and didn't even thank me that day, I reckon if there's anything I hate it's an ungrateful dog."
Dane looked at the man in disbelief. He'd just spent a week trying to sort things out, trying to make sense out of events and out of his feelings. He'd spent this time making himself believe such a thing would not happen again, that Smith had been a fluke. He'd supposed one of the townsmen had shot Smith. Obviously, this was another man from his past, another face he could not place.
He leaped from the chair and headed for the door. A shot sounded and a bullet smashed into the frame of the door beside Dane's head. Whendol's laugh, wicked and low sounded from behind him as he turned around slowly, hands held up, trembling.
"Hey you, big man. You ain't no man. A man, he don't...man don't run. Worm!" Coming from Whendol, the word sounded like a curse.. "That's what you are. A worm. Crawlin' away" The drunken Whendol wove to and fro, barely able to stand, his gun waving. He went on babbling, making little sense.
Moffit, disgusted at the man for nearly killing Dane before it was time, grabbed Whendol by the collar, dragged him aside and slammed him into the barber's chair. He walked over to Dane and said, "When I shoot you, Dane, it won't be from the back. It'll be from the front and you'll have a gun in your hand." He paused for a long moment, then with a smile, added: "Even if I have to put it there myself. You get yourself ready for it, hear? I may let you live a day or two, or maybe a week. When I get ready for you to die, I'll be dragging you out into the street if I have to."
After the two men left, Dane went back to his room. He splashed water into his face for nearly ten minutes as though that could wash away the seeming nightmare. Something was welling up inside him and he fought silently to quell it. Finally he fell on the bed and buried his face in the large pillow. No one heard the hoarse, deep scream. It was not a scream of terror or even of fear, but was akin to that of a beast mortally wounded and in pain, screaming in rage and pain like a panther who'd stepped into a trap. Afterwards he lay on the bed for nearly four hours, not moving, not asleep, just staring fixedly at the wall.
The men in the town were concerned but they were divided as to what steps to take. Some, like Shedd and Levy, were for standing aside, letting the chips fall where they may. Their thoughts were if a man like Dane had lost his nerve, then it was a battle he needed to fight alone. They should not step in unless asked. He shouldn't be wet-nursed.
Others were concerned that Dane would be killed, that he was not able to defend himself or was not willing. They were for sending the marshal to the saloon and throwing the two men into jail until Dane felt better or bad a chance to leave.
Levy was against that. His motives were more subtle than the others. He had no posters on the two men but he knew he needed no posters to make an arrest. Had Levy been honest with the men he would have admitted that those two men frightened him badly. It was different now that Dane was not around to rely upon. Always before he had the authority and the security of the big man behind him. Dane's reputation had backed down more than one man for Levy. He wanted nothing to do with those two men unless it was with a dozen men at his side. Even then he knew he'd be wishing he were somewhere else. Those men were different and he knew it. Especially Moffit.
The argument went hot and heavy, with Shedd and several men siding him, maintaining that Dane needed to walk through the fire. The others contended the fire was going to kill Ely Dane, for he could not or would not defend himself. Shedd even ventured his opinion that Dane would be better off dead if he'd lost his nerve that way because if it wasn't these two, someone else would come behind them. The town would be running off the likes of Whendol and Moffit every other day.
While it went on, Dane lay on his bed day after day, staring at the wall, thinking no great thoughts, often his mind a near blank. He rested, scarcely moving, hands gripped behind his head.
In the end the men all agreed to stand by and do nothing unless it became obvious that Dane could not help himself. Then they would step in and take over. It was a compromise of sorts but actually Shedd and Levy won, for by the time anyone stepped in Dane would be dead. They would never know the man could not defend himself until it was too late. None had realized the severity of Dane's condition.
Moffit and Whendol kept to the saloon, impatience wearing a thin edge to both men's temper. They'd even taken to quarreling with each other. Moffit knew Dane would emerge eventually, but he was now wandering if it would not be better for him to simply force the man to come out, then shoot him as soon as he could get a gun into Dane's hand.
But, his wait came to a sudden end.
Ely Dane stepped out of his room. Like the worm coming from the cocoon, even so Ely Dane emerged. And he was as changed as the worm. His body no longer showed the sleek, rippling muscles from beneath his shirt. His frame was not that of the huge, hard muscled man Dane used to be. Dane was another man, different from the worm of a man he'd become, but different too from the old Ely Dane. Far different.
He was shrunken visibly, his face a lean pallor of white and his eyes no longer reflected emotion. There was no fear there but neither was there merriment, nor that old gleam of self-confidence that used to shine in his eyes. His lips were a thin slash, no longer with a curl of friendliness.
Dane had reached down, deep down, and found a balm, a healing. He'd finally sorted things out inside, had covered the crack that had threatened to destroy him and had welded a new outlook, a new philosophy over that crack.
Many years later men who experienced what Ely Dane went through would be diagnosed as having had a nervous break-down. Ely Dane did not know that, did not care. All he knew was he'd honed things down to a simplistic philosophy: survival. It was a philosophy with serious social flaws but it was one which fit the moment for Dane.
It helped cover the crack.
Later, he would manage to cover that crack with other things more socially acceptable. But for now, in order to survive, a man had to do whatever was necessary.
Survival was basic to all men but it shrieked louder in some men. In Ely Dane it was the loudest thing he had ever heard. Much had burned out of him in that room and much had been stripped away as superfluous. As it fell away he found himself regaining his confidence, remembering what he could do with a gun and with his hands. He'd never again be foolish, never allow himself into a position where he could be set up. That was for men who cared for appearances, who held pride in their breast as a jewel to be prized. Such men cared for reputation and cultivated image.
None of that was important to Ely Dane any longer.
People stared at the gaunt figure that walked slowly but surely from the hotel, boots stirring up small puffs of dust as they moved towards the saloon without hesitation. Dane's coat was in his room, and in his white shirt which was now loose on him, he appeared to be a rail-thin, out-of-work gambler. Only the gun hanging on one side belied that.
Dane entered the saloon and moved immediately to one side, keeping in the shadows. He'd closed his eyes seconds before he stepped through the doors and the adjustment to the murky interior of the saloon took only an instant for him. He saw Moffit sitting at a table, whiskey bottle before him, dealing cards to the man called Whendol. The name had meant nothing to Dane when Moffit had called out to the man in the barber shop. It still didn't. Neither did he know Moffit. In fact, he only knew Whendol by name, having never heard Moffit's name called or given. It didn't really matter though.
Moffit called out softly, "Dane, have you finally come over to get it over with?"
Dane moved closer to the two men. Whendol sat straighter in his seat, ready to move. Dane stopped in the center of the room and said, "You spoke of killing me, you and this man."
Moffit nodded, his answer barely a whisper, "Yeah. That's right, Dane." Whendol was slowly rising.
With no warning, Dane drew his gun and shot Whendol. The young killer was only a second away from attempting to do the same thing to Dane and the surprise was written on his face as he careened backwards from his chair and onto his back.
Moffit had noted the difference in Dane's voice and in the man's eyes. Even the man's stance was changed. There was no timidity, no fearfulness, no hesitation to this man. When the action exploded around him Moffit dove for the floor and rolled, drawing his gun as he rolled.
A bullet smashed beside Moffit's arm, then another raked the side of his head and a third smashed its way beside his face in the floor, driving splinters into his cheek. Dane was incredibly fast. He'd gotten off three shots and Moffit had only time to roll on the floor. The thought flickered through his mind that he wished he could just get up and walk out and leave things be as they were.
And suddenly, he knew it was time to die. Dane stood over him, gun cocked and aimed straight at his head. Fear swept over the gunman but he refused to give in to it.
"Do what you have to, Dane."
"You were paid for me?"
Moffit nodded.
"You still want to get paid?"
Moffit shook his head. "No. You're not worth a hundred times what I was to get, mister."
The two men stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Dane spoke. "Mister, I have no qualms about shooting you. I don't believe in fair anymore. But, I'll only kill you if I think you're a threat to me. So, if you're done with me, I'm done with you. Leave your gun on the floor and leave."
Dane stepped back and holstered his gun.
No! He wants me to try.
Although Moffit had his gun in hand, the notion of trying to shoot Dane was not a temptation. Somehow, he knew he'd die. He loosed his grip on the gun, rose quickly and left the room, suddenly feeling emotions he'd never felt in his entire life. He was alive! He'd faced death before, but never certain death. He'd never looked at it this close. And Ely Dane had been death up close.
Jake Moffit never looked back as he rode out of town. And the stories about him say he went back to Pennsylvania and settled down into farming. Texas never heard from him again.
And Ely Dane left Two Spur an hour after the fight. He'd spoken to no one. And, he gave no explanations and no goodbyes.
He'd survived more than death.
THE END
What happens when a former lawman, a man dedicated to maintaining law and order, finds himself stripped of everything he loved, and inside, shrivels emotionally? What happens when a man becomes driven by vengance? What about justice? Where is that bright line? These are issues that confronted Weston Teague in the novel, Bloody Wes Teague. Teague had been a lawman in Texas in his early years, and he'd earned a "rep" as a tough man—a man who'd not back down from a fight. But, when he became a rancher in Wyoming, he left behind those years and that life. He married a beautiful New Yorker and brought her into the West. But, someone followed them. That man would earn the wrath of Wes Teague. His actions would also call into question everything Teague had once stood for as a lawman. Click here for a preview.
Copyright 1996 -V.A. Glover
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