I loosened the gun in my holster.
Ted Riker was the fastest quick-draw alive, and I was hunting him.
He’d cleared leather and killed men faster than they could pull the trigger. Folks said that he made Wild Bill Hickock look like an amateur.
Riker was an ambitious killer, and I alone stood in his way. He’d spare no pains to murder me, or get me thrown in jail on trumped up charges. Not a soul in town dared challenge him.
I knew one or both of us would die when we met. But someone had to stop him- and no one else stood a chance. I’d done my share of sheriffing and Injun fighting, and I had my finger on the string that would unravel his whole scheme.
A door creaked. The wind brushed my cheek, and I wondered if this minute might be my last. A wrinkled old man suggested I ride out while the getting was good. He didn’t want to see me die.
I shook my head. Tuckers don’t run.