He could feel the years weighing down on him, as he stepped into the dusty street. His knees protested a bit more than yesterday but he tried to ignore it. His long legs still held his slight frame upright and that was all that matters.

  The sun hammered down from a clear blue sky, the hills in the distance seemed hazy and liquid to his old eyes, sharp as they still were. He had seen much in his time and had accomplished more than most men his age and his profession. But there were always young sharks around looking to feather their caps with his leathery hide. He had put them all in the ground or sent them packing, never to challenge him again.

  This one was different, though. He was hungry, and he was mean, and he was tough as an old boot. At only 23, he has been making a name for himself by hunting down other’s like the old man and putting them out to pasture.

  Well, guess we will see if I join them, won’t we. The thought tasted grim. After all he has done, men he has killed and put away, fighting for justice in places the law had abandoned, you would think that he had earned himself a spot in the sun on the back porch with a jug of whatever took his fancy that week, bouncing grandkids on his knee. A little knowledge was a dangerous thing, he mused, and knowledge of me had spread far.

  Unfortunately that dream never arrived on any of the coaches he had protected. And there had been many. He sighed, then spat in the dust before turning to look down the street. At the other end he stood. The young shark. A remarkably handsome man, dressed in fine black linen, his toled-leather gun belt glistening in the sun, his tall frame capped by flowing shoulder length blond hair. His wide brimmed hat had a flat crown, and was as dark as the rest of his clothes.

  The street was lined with townsfolk, from the mayor to old Hen’s stablehands. They had heard the rumours that the shark was coming for the old bull. They wanted to see it happen. They wanted to see the shark take him down, or be taken down in turn. The more sensible of the folk, the older ones especially, were silently rooting for him. They knew. They knew that when he was gone, the town would be in dire straits until another like him showed up. Problem was, there aren't many like him left. If he isn’t the last of his kind.

  An errant breeze stirred skirts and shirts as it tumbled down the street, the dust in its wake settling wherever it fell. The wind died down as if it felt the tension, making itself quiet to match the hush that had fallen over the town. The old man looked around at the faces watching him, seeing people that knew him and cared about it. Here and there a teary face was present. The rest were stoic as stone.

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  A glint from one of the rooftops caught his eye. One of the kids from the school had climbed up and had placed himself at the peak. He held a rifle, which was trained on the young shark. Fool boy, you shouldn’t be up there. The old man spat again, then turned to face the young shark fully.

  He decided to at least save one life today. “Mic! Get your boy off the roof there and take that long arm away from him. He has no business here today.” The boy started, then slid off the roof and landed in the street with a thud. Moments later his father had him in hand and had removed the rifle from his inexperienced hands. A muted argument began but the old man ignored it.

  The young shark watched the scene unfold, then took off his hat and bowed to the old man. When he straightened and put his hat back on, the steel was back in his black eyes. He threw his coat back, revealing both his guns, tied down low on his legs. The old bull did the same, his well maintained but older model revolver shining in the sun. The moment was approaching fast.

  The street fell completely silent. Not a breath was stirring as the seconds stretched out forever. The clock in the tower at the town hall was seconds away from noon, the ticking loud enough for all to hear. The moment had arrived.

  The clock struck twelve, and the bell sent its first peal across the town. The young shark’s hands slapped leather, his silver revolvers kicking hard against his palms, once, twice and a third time. The old bull’s revolver kicked as well, his calloused hands steady as he slammed the hammer back again and again. He could feel death’s breath on the back of his neck, as the shark’s bullet’s slammed into him.

  The crack of the guns faded away slowly, echoing against the buildings. The old bull felt death’s touch as his legs buckled and he went to his knees. He panted, his vision swimming as he looked down the street to where the shark was standing. He hadn’t moved since the third shot was fired. The old man tried to focus his vision but darkness was enveloping him.

  At the other end of the street, the young shark was stunned. He had never seen anyone draw and fire that insanely fast. He looked down at the three holes in his chest. His guns dropped from suddenly numb hands, to clatter into the dust. He also dropped to his knees, his legs suddenly turning to water. A wet cough ripped painfully through his chest, blood flying from his lips as he toppled onto his side.

  The town was silent. No one moved a muscle as the fighters lay in the dust on opposite ends on the road. The old man had rid the world of one last gunfighter, one last killer. As life fled from him, he saw that his greatest wish, that his people would be safe, would now rest in the hands of another. His blue blood soaked into the road underneath him, and his last breath was a forlorn one.