Sundown Jim

THE ONLY WAY DEPUTY JIM MAJORS COULD CLEAN UP RESERVATION WAS TO DRAW FIRST—AND KEEP SHOOTING. The angular man in the middle of the square stirred in his tracks and began to talk. "Listen. You're lookin' for Ed Dale. I'm Dale." Majors said, "All right. You're the man I want." "You can come and get me. I'll be right here." "No," said Majors. "Drop your belt and walk this way." "No chance, mister. No chance." Time narrowed down and the moments were like pulsebeats. Ben Maffitt called in a loud voice, "Look, Majors!"—trying to draw his attention from Dale, whose elbow faded backward as he went for his gun. There are sights that cut an unforgettable pattern in a man's mind and this was one of them—Ed Dale's body bending over from the effort of his draw, his feet planted wide apart in the dust. That was how he was when Majors' bullet struck him. He was dead before he hit the ground. Majors turned slowly. "What was it you wanted me to look at, Maffitt?"