Angel

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In memory of Misti Jewel, my own toe-biter.

She was a talker, a sweet pest, my deskmate.

Lord, please don’t mind that she likes to clean

her teeth on bare feet.

Texas, 1881

High noon… an hour synonymous with death in a great many Western towns. This town was no different. The hour alone told folks who hadn’t heard what was going to happen when they saw other folks running to clear the street. Only one thing could cause such an exodus at that particular time of day. High noon… an hour without advantages, no shadows to distract, no lowering sun to blind and tip the odds. It’d be a fair fight according to the standards of the day. No one would stop to wonder if the man being challenged might not want to participate, or see anything unfair in the fact that he was forced to. A man who made his living by the gun had little choice in the matter.

The street was nearly deserted now, the windows along it crowded with folks waiting to see someone die. Even the November wind paused for the moment, letting the dust settle under the bright rays of the late autumn sun.

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