Showdown by William W. Johnstone

“Howard, you are a walking contradiction. Are you aware of that?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Lonesome said, an edge to his voice.
    â€œWell, you are. Either that or you’re crazy as a bessie bug. One or the other.”
    â€œYou’re callin’ me insane?”
    â€œIf the boot fits ... You know the rest.”
    Howard closed his Bible and put one hand on the Word of God. “I shall enjoy killing you, Frank. That is a sin, and I know it, but it’s the truth. I must remember to pray for my own weaknesses.”
    â€œAnd a practicing hypocrite too.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat’s you, Lonesome. You do know the meaning of the word, don’t you?”
    â€œYou’ve very insulting, Frank. Of course I do. And I am most certainly not a hypocrite.”
    â€œThen you’re a fool. Take your choice.”
    Lonesome pulled back his chair and stood up. He looked down at Frank. “Make your peace with God, Frank Morgan. Your time is near.”
    Frank softly and calmly told Lonesome Howard where he could shove his Bible, ending with, “I say that because it means nothing to you, Howard. It’s just words on paper to you. Nothing more.”
    â€œYou speak blasphemy, Frank.”
    â€œI speak the truth.”
    â€œThe next time we meet, Frank, might be the moment you meet God.”
    â€œOr you meet the Devil.”
    Lonesome Howard blinked a couple of times, then turned and walked away.
    Frank signaled for the barkeep to bring him more coffee. While waiting for the coffee to cool down some, he rolled a cigarette and studied the crowd of gun-handlers that lined the bar and filled the tables. A few of them glanced his way and nodded their head in greeting. Most just ignored him even though they knew him—some casually, others had known him for years.
    â€œReckon what they’re waitin’ for?” Old Bob asked, sitting down at the table with Frank. He jerked his thumb toward the gunslicks.
    â€œThe hunt is about to officially begin,” Frank told him. “That’s what Lonesome just told me.”
    â€œThat was Lonesome Howard?”
    â€œIn person.”
    â€œI thought he was retired.”
    â€œHe was, for a number of years. But the money for killing me pulled him back into the game.”
    Bob looked the crowd over. “Too many for one man, Frank. There must be thirty-five or forty gunmen in here.”
    â€œWith more coming in.”
    â€œSome of them yahoos look older than me.”
    â€œI think some of them are. That grizzled old hombre standing at the very end of the bar, at the curve, is called Rogers. He’s in his late sixties, at least. He was a well-known highwayman in California before the War Between the States. And that’s been over for many years.”
    â€œWho is the dude with the pearl-handled guns? The one standin’ in the center of the bar.”
    â€œHis name is Olmstead. Made his reputation down in Oklahoma Territory. No-man’s-land. He’s a back-shooter.”
    â€œYou go to hell!” a man standing at the bar shouted.
    â€œI’ll take you with me,” a man standing next to him yelled.
    The two men stepped away from the bar to face each other, their hands hovering over their gun butts.
    â€œGet ready to hit the floor,” Frank whispered.
    â€œI been ready,” Bob told him.
    â€œYou been makin’ your brags behind my back, Les,” one said. “I’m damn tired of it. Now fill your hand or shut the hell up.”
    Both men grabbed for their guns. Les was quicker. He fired once, the bullet striking his challenger in the center of the chest. The mortally wounded man fell back against the bar and clung there for a few seconds, then slumped to the dirty barroom floor. He died without uttering another word.
    â€œI warned him about that damn mouth of his’n,” the other man said. “I told him I’d shut it permanent someday,