Ralph Compton Navarro

SHOOT-OUT

Navarro heard the clomp and spur-ching of boots on the porch steps behind him. The kid stopped. “I got a bet goin’ over to the cantina yonder. Ten silver dollars says I can blow two holes in your old chest before you even clear leather. Wanna try provin’ I’m wrong?”

Navarro turned and faced the kid, his broad hat brim shading his dark face. “Kid, I got tired of drilling daylight through little punksticks like you a long time ago. Damn tired. I don’t answer the challenge anymore. Never will again. Now go back over to the cantina, buy you and your friends a round on my silver”—he flipped the kid a cartwheel, which bounced off the kid’s shoulder and hit the loading dock with a clang—“and leave me the hell alone.”

The kid’s nostrils flared. “When I count to three, I’m grabbin’ iron. You suit yourself.”