49
The clock on the town hall strikes the first of twelve chimes. We wait. Me for him and him for me. But I'm not gonna draw until he does. His hand lingers close to the butt of his weapon. I look in his eyes, trying to read his intent.
He's a plain guy. Hard to describe. If most people passed him on the street, they wouldn't look twice. And you'd never put him down for a killer. But that's what makes 'em so damn effective—and yet easy for the likes of me to spot.
The clock chimes nine. The sun fierce and the sound of flames lapping in the breeze.
The clock chimes ten.
I inch my hand a little closer to my gun.
We hit eleven. He's waiting for twelve, I'm sure of it.
Okay pal, twelve it is. Let's see what you've got.
The clock strikes twelve.
He draws. I draw. It's over in a flash a
