Billy Joe laughed, continued preparing for the social. Boots shined, clothes pressed, hair slicked.
1861 Navy Colt at his hip. His father’s bequest , which his mother hated. He could handle it.
She pleaded again. He kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry. I won’t be late.”
A boy left the farm; a man rode into Tyler, hitched his horse outside the saloon. Ordered his first whisky, fancied he heard a stranger mocking him. Dropped his hand. The stranger was faster. Behind him the bar mirror spiderwebbed.
The stranger shrugged. “Kid drew first.”