"Dusty."

“Look, those three hombres are hassling Dusty!”

The Sheriff looked out the window. He gave a deep sigh. He buckled his gun on, made sure his badge was shining on his vest.

“Daryl, you give me a minute to talk some sense into those three fools. If I back away, you run and get the undertaker.”

“The undertaker?”

The Sheriff turned his steel grey eyes towards his young Deputy. With a voice as cold as a mountain stream after the thaw…he made the young Deputy turn pale:

“Boy, you ever seen Dusty back down?”

“No, Sir.”

“Ever seen him show mercy once you get him riled up?”

“No, Sir.”

“Me neither. Give me a few minutes. If I walk away…you run get the Undertaker.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The Sheriff went to talk to the three idiots who were about to step on an old rattler that doesn’t give a hoot. He explained to them who Dusty was…or what he would do. Dusty, as usual, didn’t say a word. The three hombres didn’t listen.

Dusty took his hat off, and hung it on the hitching post.

The Sheriff turned and started walking towards the boardwalk in front of the jail. He waved a hand lightly. Daryl ran to get the Undertaker.

Behind him, he heard a grunt of pain, then a scream of surprise colored with fear. A smile crept up on his weathered face.

Dusty had begun.