The big gundown by J.A. Johnstone

toward the hitch rail in front of a general store that was still open. He saw two men walking along the planks of the boardwalk toward the store but didn’t pay much attention to them as he dismounted. He took the pups out of the saddlebag and cradled them both in the crook of his left arm as he started up the steps to the high loading dock in front of the store.
    “Would you look at that, Rawley? Fella’s got hisself some little dogs.”
    The Kid glanced toward the men, saw them elbowing each other and laughing as they looked at him and the pups.
    “Naw, them ain’t proper dogs, Paxton,” the one called Rawley said. “Look how little they are. I think maybe they’re prairie dogs.”
    Paxton giggled. “You ever had fried prairie dog? It ain’t bad.”
    “Yeah, and I’m hungry.” Rawley grinned at The Kid. “Say, mister, you want to sell us those little varmints? We’ll fry ’em up and see how tasty they are.”
    The Kid recognized the two men for what they were with a single look. Rawley wore a Mexican sombrero with little balls dangling from the brim, while Paxton sported a dusty black suit and Stetson. Both men carried Colts in cut-down, tied-down holsters. Would-be hard cases and desperadoes, men who fancied themselves fast with their guns. They’d been drinking, but their steps were steady enough and they didn’t sway as they stood on the store’s loading dock grinning at The Kid. The combination of all those things made them dangerous, although The Kid wasn’t particularly worried. He just didn’t want to be bothered with them.
    “Sorry, boys,” he said. “These pups aren’t for sale. I’m looking for a good home for them, though.”
    “We’ll give ’em a good home,” Paxton said. He grinned and rubbed his belly.
    “Hand ’em over, mister,” Rawley added, “and there won’t be no trouble.”
    This was ridiculous, The Kid thought. The two men didn’t really want the puppies. They were just looking for an excuse to bully somebody, and the pups had provided it.
    “There won’t be any trouble,” The Kid said flatly. “I’m going in the store, and the pups are coming with me.”
    Rawley’s lips pulled back from his teeth as his mouth curled in a sneer. The Kid’s response was just what he’d been waiting for.
    “What if we say they ain’t?”
    “Then you’ll be wrong.”
    “You know who we are?” Paxton demanded in a blustering tone. “You got any idea who you’re mess-in’ with here, boy?”
    “I think I do.” The Kid paused. “A couple of damned fools looking for somebody to run roughshod over. Well, I have to tell you, I’m in no mood for it.”
    Both gunnies stiffened in outrage at The Kid’s words. “Why, you little piss-ant!” Paxton spat. “You can’t talk to us like that!”
    “Sure as hell can’t!” Rawley added.
    The Kid took a step toward the store’s entrance. “Go somewhere and finish getting drunk. And leave me alone while you’re at it.”
    He wasn’t trying to pick a fight with them. He honestly wanted them to go on and leave him alone. If they had done so, that would have been the end of it.
    But Paxton yelled, “You son of a bitch!” and reached for his gun, and Rawley made his draw in silence.
    The confrontation wasn’t worth killing over, but both men were fairly fast and The Kid knew he wouldn’t have the time for anything fancy. He pivoted toward them as the Colt leaped into his hand as if by magic. The two hard cases had called the tune. Time for them to dance to it.
    Both men cleared leather, but The Kid’s gun was level while their weapons were still coming up. The Colt roared and bucked in his hand as he put his first shot in Rawley’s chest. The impact rocked the man back a step, but he stayed on his feet. The Kid switched his aim and fired again, this time at Paxton. Paxton was moving, darting to the side as The Kid drew, so that the bullet intended for Paxton’s heart shattered his left arm about halfway between the elbow