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Hunter got his Colt from leather and checked out it over one final time. He should have guessed his vengeance-quest would end in gunplay. Guns had played such a sizable part in it already; why shouldn't they have the final word? He stepped outside. The street was deserted save for the person who'd called him out, who stood 20 yards away - the most dangerous gunfighter in the complete southwest. Hunter observed faces seeing him through dusty home windows, and wondered whose side they were on. Does they service whether he survived this combat or passed on in the dust particles? He stepped down into the street. This was it: the moment when you no longer drew up your weapon merely to blast the tips off Apache plumes or shatter vacant bottles - but quite simply, to kill...
