Dan Borden rode into town tired and thirsty. He had had enough of running. He was not guilty, and he knew it, even if no one would believe him. The town was the one he had fled from several weeks earlier. He would make his case or his stand there, whatever the outcome. He left his horse at the livery stable and crossed the street to the saloon, his rifle still in the packsaddle.
Halfway across the street someone fired on him from the saloon rooftop, missing him. His revolver was clearly useless at such a distance, so he sprinted back toward the stable. One more shot came very close.
From inside the door of the stable, Dan drew a bead on the opposing rooftop, sweeping it with the rifle sight. But no one was there. He waited until he saw someone peer from behind the facade. Then he fired.
Copyright 2013 George Lowell Tollefson