A Gunfight at Twelve Noon
I'm just this guy, you know?
To expand on that, I am also the following...
- A former ficly member who is 38 years old and is schizoaffective (depressive type)
- Into creating languages and fantasy worlds from scratch
- A listener of audiobooks & good tunes
- Always too hard on myself
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.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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- Published 5 years ago.
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You could have easily ended this story with "They both shot" and left that air of mystery hanging out there like gunsmoke in the wind. :)