The Alamosa Trail

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“You don’t want this, Shardeen,” Sheriff Martin said.

Shardeen gave him an arrogant little smile. “Yeah, I do want it,” he said.

The lawman was so nervous that he telegraphed when he was going to make his move by narrowing the corners of his eyes. The glint of light in his pupils gave way to resignation. Martin lost the contest even before it began.

The sheriff started for his gun.

The arrogant sneer never left Shardeen’s face. He was snake fast, and he had his pistol out and cocked before Martin could clear his holster. When Martin saw how badly he was beaten, he let go of his pistol and it slid back into the holster. At that moment Shardeen fired, his gun spitting out a finger of flame six inches long.

“Bastardo!” the deputy yelled as he pulled his own pistol.

Shardeen’s gun roared a second time. Ernesto, like Sheriff Martin, was unable to get off a shot. As the smoke drifted up to the ceiling Shardeen stood there, his gun still in hand, the arrogant smile still on his face.

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