The eyes of men, women and children darted between the two gunmen standing in the long shadow of the clock tower. A maelstrom of fear, hope and suspense coursed through the crowd. Like an icy hand clenching their hearts and threatening to pull should they look away.
The two men stood in silence, concentrating on the mechanical sounds of the clock tower. Each tick ferried them closer to the final strike of noon.
One was a righteous hero, the other, a malcontent and a villain. The hero was a handsome man, his dark hair slicked firmly with paste, his clothes well kept but for the dust he gathered on his ride to the duel. His stance was impervious, his face steel, devoid of expression except for his eyes. His eyes urged the villain to walk away.
The villain didn’t match eyes with his opponent, they were glazed over, unfocused and unblinking in the shade of his ragged ten gallon hat. It was said his face was a mess of horrible scars and it may have been so for he never lowered his bloodied bandana. All of his rigid form was hidden beneath worn and tattered clothes, even his hands were wrapped in stained yellow bandages. All but his eyes were obscured and through his gaze the hero could see nothing but fire and death.
The villain stood with his back to the clock tower, he had no interest in the time. He meant to draw when the hero drew and not a moment sooner. The hero concentrated on the villain, trying to avoid the gruesome sight beyond. The sheriff was hanging from the clocktower, on display for the whole town. His overly luxurious lifestyle had made him a disgusting corpse. His corpulent form rolled out from beneath his coat threatening to pull his head from his shoulders. Blood had pooled in his swollen feet and his face had turned the colour of beetroot. There was no love lost between the hero and the usurper sheriff but this was barbaric.
The villain moved his hand slowly into his pocket, the hero didn’t flinch, his eyes were sharp and his nerves were steady. He wasn’t reaching for his gun. The villain pulled out a shimmering star. Even in the shade of the clock tower the lustre of the sheriff’s badge shined true. The villain tossed the star, a bright trail of flickering light followed by a soft impact in the dirt not but three paces from him. The hero glanced at it, then back to the villain. Clenching his teeth, refusing to give in to his goading. The badge lay unclaimed in the dirt, its iridescence coaxing him to come and claim it.
Before the rail came and planted the usurper that badge had been his father’s. He’d grown up believing it would be his someday. That his father would pass it down to him. Not like this.
The villain studied the hero’s eyes while his attention lingered on the badge. What was he thinking? Was he angry or calm? Was his heart in it? It had not been easy to coax him into this duel. He’d better draw, everyone needed to bear witness. This hero, he was the last deputy, even if he didn’t wear the badge anymore. His stance, his posture spoke of his history. The spectre of his relinquished badge still upon his breast in spirit. Even the crowd could feel it and when they closed their eyes they could see it.
The villain glanced upwards, his eyes flitting left and right. His head still and steady as he scanned for his marksmen up above the crowds. Hidden in the shadows were his trusted few, they would make sure no one interfered. When this was over they would return to the reservation. The rail carving their meagre home in two would soon be gone. All it would take was one more dead man.
The hero knew he had no choice but to draw. With a single bullet he could stop the fighting the rail had wrought. That damned steel snake that poisoned both of their lands. The hero cursed the rail far more than the villain. His father had been forced to resign as sheriff for doing his duty. For protecting the reservation against intruders and eventually pitting him against the rail. He’d always said “All that sets a hero apart from a villain is his reputation.”. The rail had more than enough money to burn his father’s reputation to the ground. Lies and deception were made true by papers and rumours paid for by the rail. A man of virtue and honour was branded a man of vice and sin. Eventually he couldn’t bear the shame and was forced to surrender his badge to the usurper. He left the town a pariah.
This mob that was gathered about to witness the duel, the mob whom the hero had come here to save had never said a word to protect his father, nor had they sent condolences after the fire. Instead they had welcomed the usurper with open arms. They thanked him while he sent their sons to die protecting that wretched rail. They invited war into their town. They were reaping what they had sowed, this villain was their judgement. But they couldn’t see that, all they saw was a villain and a hero. They wanted nothing more than to see the villain they had created bleeding in the dirt like a stuck pig. None of them were worthy of salvation.
The hero glared at them with condemnation before pushing the thought from his mind. It was not his choice, he was here to bring justice, right and wrong didn’t come into it. There was only the law. But it would be murder without his badge, he wasn’t the law anymore. “The law cannot be upheld by those unwilling to be bound to it.” his father’s words. He knew he couldn’t draw.
The strike of noon came. The moment froze, the mob held their breath, then… nothing. The hero’s hand shook, resisting the call of his iron. His survival instinct fighting against his better nature. The villain didn’t flinch, he hadn’t drawn either. Silence settled on the town, periodically broken by the striking of the clock. Stillness took hold over every onlooker but for the light breeze ruffling hair and clothes.
The hero wasn’t going to go through with it, he was too much like his father. Fury rose in the villain, this wasn’t what he wanted but he’d have his duel. The sound of iron sliding from leather followed by the growled demand of an old strained voice. “Draw damn you!” The villain’s gun was levelled towards the hero’s chest. All it would take was the pull of the trigger and it would be over. The villain was looking into the eyes of the hero, the shroud falling from his eyes filled with life and rage. The hero peered back. They had the same eyes, beneath the villain’s rage and the hero’s fear was sorrow and recognition. A sudden impulse took hold of the hero. He took a step forward, a shot went off and a gust of dirt kicked off the ground in his path. Wisps of smoke lingered around the muzzle and cylinder of the villain’s iron. He pulled the hammer back and the cylinder turned, another round ready to be fired. The villain spoke more clearly now. “Draw. Or everyone burns.” The hero stepped forward again. The villain was right, the man responsible for the fighting was hanging from the clock tower. But it wouldn’t end there. The powers that be would come for their pound of flesh and call it justice. It wouldn’t be the villain that paid the price, it would be the reservation. The hero stepped forward again. The villain had to die or many more would. He stood above the badge, shimmering in the dirt and bent down to take it. He pinned it to his chest and looked at the man holding him at the end of his iron. He was no villain, but he was already dead.
The sheriff drew, a shot rang out. A single round cut through the air, breaking cloth, skin, muscle, bone and finally the man’s heart. He hit the ground, the dry land lapping up his blood as it poured freely from the hole in his chest. Beneath the gore the man passed quickly into a long awaited peace. Justice had not been done, but a wrong had been set right.
As the crowd rushed forward in cheers the sheriff stood in mourning, ready to pick up where his father had left off.