They stood as mountains in the face of each other. Unwilling to move, to retreat. Both wolves had just clambered out of their wrecks, each having rocked the other’s ride to hell and back in a vicious race.
“Codebreaking sonofabitch,” the red wolf scowled. “Call that a fucking duel!?”
He was just another joyrider, his rusted car some hodgepodge of a hot rod. Had nothing on but shredded jeans, work-boots and the wife-beater to match. Wasn’t a small hound either; he was a tall sonofabitch.
The black wolf on the opposite side of their impromptu O.K. Corral stared blankly. His pickup was battered to hell, but he came out unscathed. The thin, towering fellow was a real cowboy, dressed the color of his fur from head-to-toe, with pointed boots and slacks dusted by the desert sand, and conchos of silver sat upon the hatband of his Stetson. Two mighty pieces of peacemaker sat on his hips, the long leather holsters steady as a rock.
“What I call a duel,” the black wolf replied, his growling baritone sending a shiver down the red’s spine, “is 20 paces and one shot to settle the score. Not trying to kill a man for the crime of driving within five miles of a worthless punk.”
“A’right, how ‘bout it?” the seething Duellist snarled. “A proper one then.”
The black wolf tipped his hat and sauntered towards the center of their field, the red following suit. Once there, with the Duellist grumbling, the Cowboy carefully drew both his revolvers and handed him the one off his left hip.
“Can you count straight, Chico?” he asked.
The red nodded.
“Walk those 20 steps, stop and then we’ll do a 3-2-1-Fire, out loud.”
The Cowboy whipped around, his back now to the Duellist. He could sense the opponent’s trepidation. “And If there’s any real honor in you,” he added coldly, “instead of this make-believe knighthood, you’ll keep that hand filled and get on your mark like a man.”
Slowly, the Duellist turned, his red fur bristled by a gust of wind.
As the sands of the desert swirled around them, they walked. One step into five, five steps into ten, and ten into twenty.
Once they stopped, the Duellist peered over his shoulder, just to see if the Cowboy was good as his word.
He was. Time to count.
“Three! Two! One—”
The Duellist spun on “one,” and the Cowboy shot on “Fire.” The Duellist dropped to the ground as the revolver leapt from his hand.
The black wolf holstered, walking back over to meet his felled opponent. He wasn’t dead, but it was a solid wound all the same.
“And that’s the reason why I duel with lead.” he remarked. “You come out the other end more often than not.”
The red wolf, a patch of blood now staining his tank-top, could only clutch at his gut and seethe. “Why don’t you finish the job?” he growled.
The Cowboy cocked his head, plucked up the other revolver, and crouched down to his level. “The difference between the honor-bound and the hell-bound, Chico. Get off your ass and choose wisely next time.”