A Gunfight at Twelve Noon

Fear is a man, which made things a lot more complicated.

Deuce was only half sure that he could beat the Lance Rigaud on the quick draw and he knew they were dead even on the ability to hit the intended target.

The guns of the era were not the most accurate, but a skilled gunman could do better than the average man or woman in a duel.

Their thumbs twitched over the hammers of the revolvers and their eyes flinched at each tick that the town's clock tower let out.

It would soon be time and they both knew that afterwards, only one would be standing. That's the way these things went with men so adept at the ways of the pistol.

Deuce's stomach rumbled. Not with hunger, but with an uneasiness that it had never felt before.

Deuce had always been the best at his craft, but Rigaud challenged that notion heavily.

Both men took a deep breath and waited for the clock to ring with the bells of twelve noon.

It seemed like forever, but finally, the bells rang out.

The two men drew.

They both shot.

Deuce fell.