Boopie leaned atop an old whiskey barrel, spellbound by the spectacle of two gunfighters debating. Not fighting, not even arguing. Debating.
The gale that had been blowing for days meant there wasn’t much of a crowd. The risk of getting sand (or a stray bullet) in your eye loomed large. The few peering through their frail drapery might just make out two figures – legends, both of them – hunkered down together behind a horse, the marshal nervously bopping above them.
Boopie had tiptoed near.
“Can’t have a shootout in this weather hoss. Not fair on whoever’s looking into the wind, get it?”
“I take the point hoss, I do, but the arranged time was 3pm and this wind ain’t easing off soon. If we don’ get to some trigger pullin’, it ain’ gon’ look good for either of us. Amiright?” The shorter of the two men clipped his words pleasantly. Like, Boopie thought, he put a stop after each word.
“Gentlemen if I may, I feel we…”
But Marshall Howard, it seemed, may not, for the first gunfighter spoke right over him. Boopie watched the lanky sheriff’s figure wither slightly with only a little satisfaction.
“Damnit hoss, you wanna be the one shooting into the sand?” The taller man bit back, exasperated. Clippy pulled out a pocket watch and furrowed his brow.
“You could do it in the bar?”
All three men turned to look at Boopie. The marshall seemed horrified, but the two gunslingers looked… pensive.
“Inside?” Clippy turned to Tall.
“Ain’ been done before’!”
“Kid, which way’s the…”
Boopie pointed, feeling a thrill of excitement as both men tipped their hats. They stood and walked off.
“Boopie?!” Marshall Howard yelled. Furrowing his brow like a good’un, he drew his pistol and ran after the men.
“Wait!”
Boopie ran.