Dutchmans Flat (Ss) (1986)
Page 26
His hands dropped, and suddenly, with a shock of pure realization, he knew he was making the fastest draw he had ever made. Triumph leaped within him and burst in his breast. He’d show them! His guns sprang up … and then he saw the blossoming rose of flame at the stranger’s gun muzzle and he felt the thud of the bullet as it struck him.
His head spun queerly and he saw a fountain of earth spring from the ground before him, his own bullet kicking the dust. He went down, losing his gun, catching himself on one hand. Then that arm gave way and he rolled over, eyes to the sun.
The man stood over him. Montana Croft stared up: “You’re Kilkenny?”
“I’m Kilkenny.” The tall man’s face was suddenly soft. “You made a nice try.”
“Thanks … “
Montana Croft died there in the street of Boquilla, without a name that anyone knew.
Margery Furman’s eyes were wide. “You … You’re Kilkenny?” For this time it was there, that something she had looked for in the face of the other man. It was there, the kindliness, the purpose, the strength.
“Yes,” he said. And then he fulfilled the tradition. He rode out of town.