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Updated: May 25, 2025
The minutes passed; the doors flew open. Within the threshold Joe Phy halted. "Commence!" he shouted and flung an oath after the word. "Commence!" Pete Gabriel turned, and his revolver flew from its holster spitting fire. Phy's forty-five ejected a thin stream of orange flame. The voices of the weapons mingled in one loud explosion.
And Gabriel answered quietly, "All right, Joe. I'll be here when you come back." The swinging doors closed behind Phy's back and the sheriff turned to the man behind the bar. "Call 'em up," he said. "This is on me." He ordered whisky and those who lined up beside him kept looking toward the street entrance; but he remained with his back to the swinging doors.
The two men took a pace toward each other and the smoke grew thicker as they shot again in unison. They came on slowly, pulling the triggers until the room was filled with the black powder fumes. Then Pete Gabriel stood swaying within arm's length of Joe Phy's prostrate form.
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