"If you order me to do so, Frank, I will."
"Do I have to order it done?"
"No. Of course not. I'm gone."
Frank finished his coffee and stood up, slipping the hammer thong off his .45. Angie was watching, and frowned.
"Frank, isn't there another way?"
"No, Angie. There isn't. Not with The Kid. He wants a reputation."
"He's lightning fast."
Frank smiled. "I'm no tenderfoot, Angie."
She returned the smile. "Of course, you're not. I didn't mean to imply -- "
Frank held up a hand. "I know what you meant. Angie. Keep the coffee hot, will you?"
"Just for you and Jerry. And I'll have some supper for you, too."
Frank picked up his hat, settled it on his head, and stepped out of the cafe. He looked to his left. There was The Kid, waiting at the end of the block.
"Might as well get this over with," Frank said, thinking: _One way or the other._ He touched the brim of his hat in a salute to The Kid, a signal that he was ready, and stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.
Kid Moran did the same.
The word had spread about the pending gunfight. The main street was deserted of carpenters and other workmen. In only a few more years, stand up, hook and draw showdowns such as this would be mostly a thing of the past, but for now, it was still legal in most small towns in the West. If not legal, at least accepted by many.
Louis Pettigrew, the book writer from the East, was standing in the lobby of the hotel, watching it all and scribbling furiously in his notebook. He had written about dozens of shoot-outs, but this was the first actual gunfight he had ever witnessed. It was enthralling and exciting. What a book this would make: the aging king of gunfighters meeting a young, but fast, upstart prince in the dusty street for the title of the best of the fast guns. Wonderful!
Conrad was not watching the slow walk toward death in the street. He was sitting quietly beside his mother's bed.
Charles Dutton was watching from the hotel, a faint smile on his lips.
"Ride out of here, Kid," Frank called. "Don't throw your life away for nothing."
"It ain't nothin' to me, Morgan," The Kid called.
"Boy, the day of the gunfighter is nearly over. And as far as I'm concerned, it's past time."
"What's the matter, Morgan?" The Kid taunted. "You gettin' old and yeller?"
_Getting old, for sure_, Frank thought. _He's damn sure right on one count._ "Don't be a fool, boy. You know better than that."
"Frank Morgan done lost his nerve," The Kid yelled. "By God, it's true. You beg me to let you leave and you can ride out of here, Morgan. Beg for your life, old man."
_The Kid's been drinking_, Frank thought. _Where else would he get such a silly idea?_ "Forget it, boy," Frank called. "That won't happen."
The distance between them was slowly closing. Little pockets of dust were popping up under their boots as they walked toward sudden death and destiny.
"Why don't you draw, old man?" The Kid yelled. "Come on, damn you. Pull on me!"
"It's your play, Kid," Frank said calmly. "You're the one challenging the law here in town. I'm ordering you to give this up and ride on out."
The Kid suddenly stopped in the middle of the street. Frank stopped his walking. There were maybe fifty or so feet between them. Plenty close enough.
"Suspenseful," Louis Pettigrew muttered. "I never knew it could be like this."
"Insane," Mayor Jenkins muttered, watching from inside his bank. "When is this going to stop?"
Angie stood in the doorway of her cafe, a just poured cup of coffee forgotten in her hand.
Undertaker Malone was watching from an alley. He was taking a much needed break from his work. The bodies of that day's tragic events were still stacked up inside his parlor and outside behind his establishment. Many had already been buried without benefit of Malone's services.
Willis was watching from his general store. He had sent his wife and kids into the rear of the store, safe from any stray bullets.
"Draw on me, you old bastard," Kid Moran yelled, "so's I can kill you and have done with this."
"Drag iron, son," Frank replied. "I told you this is your play."
The Kid stared at Frank, then shook his head. "You yeller son of a bitch!" The Kid hollered. "You're afeared of me. I knowed you had a yeller streak up your back."
Frank waited, silent and steady -- a man alone in the middle of the street, the tin star on his coat twinkling faintly in the last rays of late-afternoon sun. Frank sensed The Kid was getting nervous, and that emotion would be a plus for him.
"What's the matter, boy?" Frank called. "You sound real edgy."
"Ain't nothin' the matter with me, you old fart! Are you gonna draw, or rattle that jaw of yourn?"
"I keep telling you, boy, it's your play. Are you deaf, or just plain stupid?"
"Goddamn you!"
Frank waited patiently.
Someone standing in the doorway of the saloon laughed.
The Kid cut his eyes away from Frank for just a split second. "Are you laughin' at me?"
Frank could have drawn and fired during the half second The Kid had averted his eyes. But he didn't. Frank really didn't want to kill The Kid. He knew, though, that The Kid wasn't about to give him any other option.
The Kid settled that quickly. "You damned yeller belly. I'm countin' to three. You better draw on me, Morgan. Sometime durin' the count. If you don't, that's your hard luck. It don't make no difference to me nohow. I'm gonna kill you anyways. I'm tared of all this jibber jabber."
"You're under arrest, Kid Moran," Frank called, making what he knew he had to do legal.
"Huh? I'm whut?"
"You're under arrest"
"Whut charge?"
"Threatening the life of a peace officer. Now come along peacefully or suffer the consequences."
"You go to hell, Morgan!"
"That's the last chance I'm giving you, boy."
Kid Moran cursed and grabbed iron. He just thought he was quick on the shoot. Frank beat him to the draw and shot him in the belly.
"Damn!" The Kid gasped, doubling over. But he held on to his gun.
"Drop your gun, boy!" Frank called.
"Hell with you, Morgan." The Kid lifted his .45 and jacked back the hammer.
Frank shot him again. The impact turned The Kid around in the street. He stumbled a couple of times, but he just wouldn't go down.
Kid Moran straightened up and grinned at Morgan.
"Now you're dead, Morgan," he gasped. "Now it's my turn."
The Kid lifted his pistol and Frank drilled him again. This time The Kid went to his knees, but didn't stay down long. He dropped his pistol and, bracing himself with that hand, struggled to his feet, drawing his second pistol.
"Damn you to hell, Morgan!" The Kid managed to spit out the words. Then he turned to one side and lifted and cocked his left-hand gun.
Frank dusted him with his fourth round, the bullet slamming into The Kid and blowing out the other side. This time Kid Moran went down and stayed down. He tried to rise, but just couldn't make it. His pistol slipped from his hand to lie in the dust.
Frank unconsciously twirled his pistol before holstering it. He walked over and looked down at the bullet-riddled young man. "Sorry about this, Kid. I really am."