“You be Steve Dancy?” asked a man behind my shoulder.
I looked up to see a lean, shallow-cheeked youth in his early twenties who appeared earnest. Earnest about what, I wondered.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Nope. But I heard of you. Deadly gunman. Rich as Midas. Renown throughout the West as one of the few surviving gunfighters.”
“You forgot author. I write novels.” I laughed. “Sorry, son, those are just stories.”
“Not from what I hear. They say you write about yourself.”
I tried a friendly smile. “If only that were true. Actually, the life of a writer is exceptionally dull. Sitting in front of an Underwood all day. How’d you recognize me anyway.”
“I got my ways. I came over see if we could arrange a duel.”
“A duel? Is this a joke? I’m not a duelist. I’m a writer and a businessman. My characters duel, I don’t.”
“No joke.” He gave me a hard stare that reminded me of someone I couldn’t place. “I demand a duel.”
“Demand to your heart’s content, I’m not responding. I’m a married man with a quiet home and three kids. You’ve been misinformed.”
“Being a father ain’t no excuse. You killed my pa.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Name of Brian Cutler.”
“Never heard of him,” I lied.
“Oh, yes you have. Without warning, you shot him and my uncle dead in the streets of Pickhandle Gulch.”
I stared in disbelief. Brian Cutler had been the first man I killed. Or the second. His brother may have been first. I didn’t remember.
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