True Duel

Settling Things The Old-Fashioned Way...

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.”