"“Bert Rawlings,” he called.
Rawlings turned in his seat and slowly rose to his feet. He knew he, himself, was fast with a gun and it had come down to who was faster, him or Johnson. When he was fully erect, he kicked the chair from him. With a smirk of a smile on one corner of his mouth, he spoke.
“Well, what can I do for you Mr. Johnson?” There was a mocking tone to his voice.
“I’ve come to settle a debt with you for killing five of my men and for your violation of a good woman in Amarillo.”
The room became so quiet you could have heard a bug burp. All eyes were moving from one to the other of the two men facing each other. Sweat beads popped out on the forehead of both. Finally Rawlings shrugged his shoulders as if giving up the fight when his hand swept for the butt of his gun. He was fast. Like lightening he had his weapon clear of the holster and coming up to face a .44 that was more like greased lightning. JB’s first bullet tagged Rawlings just above the belt buckle and his physical reaction was just enough to pull his shot off and his slug hit JB in the upper left shoulder.
JB’s second shot punched a hole in the center of Rawlings’ breastbone exploding bone fragments all through his lungs and upper body, ventilating his heart. The chunk of hot lead continued on, taking out Rawlings’ spine as it zinged into the wall behind. Rawlings was dead when he hit the floor. JB stood there for a second to make sure, Rawlings was through. He replaced his empties, holstered his gun and held his shoulder. Joe rushed over and helped JB to a chair. He looked up at the barkeep and asked him to send for a doctor. By the time the doctor arrived on the scene, JB had passed out from both shock and loss of blood."
About James Richard Langston
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Published November 30, 2011
Westerns, Literature & Fiction.