Wells Fargo Agent

      DEADWOOD    LATE JULY 1876

      

           It was hot, a searing heat that dries a body out as soon as it gets wet.  

People and animals moved in slow motion not wanting to expend any 

unnecessary energy.              

     Luke Dawson stepped out of the door of the Number 10 Saloon into the heat and the

glaring sunlight.  

He wore a Stetson hat, a light long sleeved shirt, Levis and his Colt 44-40
single-action revolvers.  

He stood just over six feet tall and his blue eyes squinted into the glare of the day.     

“There you are, Dawson” boomed a voice.  “I’ve been lookin’ for you.”

        Reno Sinclair considered himself a bad man and he was.  
He’d killed several men in gunfights.

Sometimes though not often he’d given them an even break.  
This was not one of those

times.  He was tall with blue eyes and a brown mustache.  

A scar ran across his right cheek giving

him a rakish look.  His boots were custom and his gunrig polished and well cared for.  

      “Well, you’ve found me Sinclair.”  Luke answered.  “What’s on your mind?”

       “Cletus Heppleman was a friend of mine,” Sinclair answered.  “What do you say to that?” 

His back was to the sun and he had a hand wrapped around his big 

Colt Single Action revolver. 

In most circumstances this would give him an unfair advantage in pulling his gun 

quickly out of

the holster.  He flipped a whisky bottle away with his left hand.  

It landed without breaking and

spun crazily away in the hardpacked dirt.

         Luke unthonged his Colts and crossed his hands, left over right.  “I’d say you weren’t too

choosey about your company.  Cletus was a stagecoach robber and a murderer.  

He got what he deserved.”

Luke stepped forward so his left side was facing Sinclair.  

This had the effect of making him a

smaller target silhouette and gave him a shorter area to draw his gun. 

     

          People scattered from the line of fire of the two men.  Then they lined up at a safe distance

to watch the prospective fight.  Odds were quickly being given and taken on the outcome.

        “You still didn’t have no reason to kill him.”

         “Anytime a man pulls iron on me I don’t count that as a friendly act,” Luke replied.       

        Luke let the situation play itself out.  Like many men Sinclair had to drink
and talk himself into a killing frenzy.  Luke thought, “Maybe he’ll talk himself
 out of it.  

It’s happened before.”  Luke

called out, “Why don’t you let it go Sinclair?  Just walk away.  And I’ll walk away.”

       Sinclair saw his mistake in giving Luke time to prepare.  He shook his head, his stained gray

Stetson shimmered in the heat.  “Can’t,” Sinclair said and pulled his pistol.

       

His Colt cleared the holster.  Then a big weight seemed to fall on his chest.  

He grabbed his pistol with his left hand to help his

right lift it up.  The weight crushed him down.  “I—ah” Sinclair said.  Then he died.

       Luke had pulled his Colt from the cross-draw holster but only had to raise the muzzle two

inches to fire.  It was so fast that many thought it was some kind of a trick.  

He fired three shots rapidly.  Then

when he saw Sinclair trying to get off a last labored shot he

reluctantly fired twice more emptying his weapon and putting “paid” to Sinclair .  
Sinclair sprawled in the dust.  Luke holstered

his weapon and drew his other Colt with his left hand.  
He scanned the area to see if Cletus Heppleman had any

more foolish friends.  Apparently he didn’t.  

Luke shook his head then turned around and walked

back inside the Number 10.

       Money changed in the hands of the bettors.  The winners were chuckling, “The kid’s fast

and he’s smart.  Did you see the way he turned?  Sinclair should have
had his gun out.  Even then it likely wouldn’t have been close.”