Showdown at Yellow Butte

The gun came up and Fessenden seemed to lean forward with it.

Kedrick triggered. The shot nailed Fessenden through the chest again. The big man took a fast step back, then another. His gun slipped from his hand, and he grabbed a glass from the bar. “Gimme a drink!” he demanded.

Blood bubbled at his lips.

Tom Kedrick came down the steps, his gun ready in his hand and walked toward Fessenden. Holding his gun level and low down with his right hand, Kedrick picked up the bottle with his left and filled the empty glass. Then he pulled over another glass and poured one for himself.

Fessenden stared at him. “You’re a good man, Kedrick,” he said, shaping the words patiently. “I’m a good man, too on the wrong side.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Kedrick lifted his glass, they clicked them, and Fessenden grinned crookedly over his. 

“You watch that Dornie,” he advised, “he’s rattler-mean.” The words stumbled from his mouth and he frowned, lifting the glass. He downed his drink, choked on it, and started to hold out his big hand to Kedrick, then fell flat on his face. Holstering his gun,

Kedrick leaned over and gripped the big right hand. Fessenden grinned and died.