The Shootout

Sheriff William Barnet stood in the middle of the dirt road that passed through the town of Deadwood. The heat bounced off the light brown of the road that ever so lightly complemented the hand-made wooden buildings that made up the town. In front of him, yards away, stood the dangerous James D. McBooth. McBooth had been wanted for murder and attempted robbery in Whitewater.

“James D. McBooth! You are wanted by the United States of America. I have you surrounded with my lawmen. I can assure you at least one of my Marshals is a trained rifleman who is prepared to shoot.” William lifted his bandana over his face as the wind scattered dust. “There’s a town full of people here who are our witnesses. I would suggest giving up- “

“-I’m sorry Sheriff, but will you please shut that trap of yours. You and I both know I ain’t surrendering, or whatever you call it these days. I will never trust the law, never again that is.” McBooth was standing on the other side of the town as he loudly spoke back. It appeared a duel was shortly to cause death. In the meantime, the wind began to increase in speed.

“Well, you and I both know that some of us ain’t getting out of this alive.” William shouted, again.

The town of Deadwood stretched a few blocks and the population was only 56 people. The age of the goldrush was upon the town. Many families made the trip west, losing loved ones in the process. Those who did make it were presented with beautiful landscape and fields far as the eye could see. It was perfect for cropping and farming animals for trade. Of course, gold was what many were after. But, with a lack of laws, and motivation over the word “freedom”, the town of Deadwood saw its fair share of criminals, robbers, and murderers. Many of the townsfolk learned to ignore death. Death hovered over the town at the same consistent pace in which men drank shots of whiskey. The only positive, was Sheriff William Barnet, the protector.

Barnet served in the United States Military and was a Captain. He was an older gentleman with a deep voice and a mean shot. He had four deputies at his disposable, and a loyal town ready to fight anyone who stood in their way. With years of experience fighting the law, he had never lost a criminal who was on the run.

Most of the townsfolk were standing on the porches of their buildings, eager to fight. William and McBooth stood in the road continuing to argue. Three deputies had taken cover by the saloon, while the sharpshooter made camp on top of the general store. The wind picked up, and the dust grew in strength.

“McBooth, I encourage you to use your head. No one needs to get hurt. I know your plan. Just give up now, or I will be forced to shoot.” William shouted over the wind. A few of the townsfolk entered the buildings to avoid the dust. Visibility was at 75 percent.

McBooth covered his face with his red and white bandana. He had black pants, a black vest, and a brown cowboy hat. His colt peacemaker sat in its holster as he inched his hand closer to it.

“You know me too well Sheriff. I’m more of the shoot and take chances type of cowboy. You’re a smart man Sheriff. I see your men, but the thing is, do you see my men?” McBooth yelled back. “The only problem now, is who wants to make the first move?”

“Oh hush, McBooth. We captured your men weeks ago. You’re the last cow in the herd. You’re a slime, and not worth dirt.”

The remainder of the town began barricading the doors, grabbing their weapons, and locking down the forts of their properties. The dust began to gain weight. The sun was beginning to set and merged with the dust to blind visibility. McBooth’s men had been captured weeks ago, at the start of this manhunt. Was this just some pathetic excuse to buy him more time?

DING! POW!

William grabbed his gun from its holster and shot at McBooth. The deputies fired back, helplessly aiming in the direction of where they thought McBooth was standing. Men kicked up dirt as they ran for cover, adding to the already harsh visibility. The dust and wind were so heavy that no one could see a thing, not even something as big as a cow. The first shot came from a sniper, roughly 80 yards away, out of sight.

Unexpectedly, horses began to stampede the town, neighing and grunting as they ran. Their commanders: three men, wearing all black like McBooth, with guns blazing. Windows broke, people were shot alongside horses, men cursed, and men danced around death. For several minutes’ gunfire continued to pop! but the dust storm never eased up.

Then there was silence.

The townsfolk remained in their homes, shops, and the saloon for hours. There was never a word spoken because the sound of their voices could give away their positions. After two hours, with the sun moments away from setting, the dust cleared, and the wind stopped.

BOOM, BOOM!

Two gunshots exploded. One off in the distance, and the other from the sniper on the roof.

Silence.

The townsfolk didn’t know what to expect. The sun was teasing its death, only to be reborn hours later the next day. After twenty minutes, the owner of the saloon, Papa Shadow, made his way outside to see the result of the battle. What he saw, had not affect on him. One deputy lay dead inside of a horse’s water barrel, another was resting on the steps to the general store. The sniper on the roof had been shot by the opposing sniper 80 yards away. After further investigation, it appeared both riflemen simultaneously killed each other. One man from McBooth’s gang was laying underneath his horse, no longer moving. The other, coughing up blood from a gunshot wound to the stomach, slowly consuming his last hits of oxygen.

In the middle of the street, in the same spots in which they once stood before the gunfight, William and McBooth laid in their own piles of blood, dead.

There was no weeping or crying, no sobs or moans. The townsfolk began cleaning the mess for as long as the sun would let them. Ignoring death was once hard, but not anymore.