The Line

Farnsworth Haversby was not a fast man with a gun. In fact he was downright slow. It didn't bother him though; most men were slow in the Squinty-eyed West. One didn't have to be quick on the draw to ranch or farm or pan for gold. Look at it this way: How many times have you ever had to fight a professional or collegiate athlete?

But long odds that he'd ever have to use them wasn't the only reason Farnsworth Haversby wore his six guns unconcerned. Farnsworth Haversby had something else. Farnsworth Haversby knew... The Line.

"You're about a step and a half from where you are and where you’ll die."

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Gunfights in the Squinty-eyed West generally fell into one of two main categories:
The first was a showdown between willing combatants, each believing himself quicker.

Peaceful men had nothing to fear from this type of fight except ricochets and maybe a stampede.

It was the second, more rare type of gunfight that even the peaceful couldn't always avoid--that merciless gun-down, foisted upon the unlucky by brutal, bearded men, or wisp-like wraiths of fluid cruelty who wore ruffles and hummed as they killed.

The play was as old as the trees; the vicious gunfighter would take offense at something real or somehow implied--like a bump on the arm, or a casual glance, or an overly shiny buckle. Then he'd challenge his trembling foe and savagely cut him down with lead.

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Clay "The Rat'ler" Smivingsly was liquid death with a gun and had a cruel streak so wide it could have passed for a tan. He came to town to kill one day, 'cause it had been a week and he was bored.

Farnsworth Haversby was polishing his favorite belt buckle when the batwing doors slammed open and the entire saloon fell still. Farnsworth didn't notice. He was on the last few rubs and rather proud of the job he'd done.
"By golly boys, look at that." Farnsworth said, thrusting his hips in the air. "That is luster restored boys, that is luster restored right there."

Expecting mummers of agreement but hearing none, Farnsworth lifted his eyes from the golden sheen and saw the spacklet of light dancing across the The Rat'ler's face.

Farnsworth apologized and let his shirtfront drop, cutting the reflection off at the source. But everyone knew that wouldn't suffice and rushed to get out of the way.

"You've got some nerve stranger." Clay snarled, drawing each consonant out like a blade.

"It was an innocent mistake sir, one for which I've already apologized." Farnsworth replied. The other patrons knew how slow on the draw Farnsworth was and couldn't believe he wasn't in tears by now. They huddled in corners and whispered about him in the past tense. They didn't know that Farnsworth knew... The Line.

"Not good enough." Clay muttered with a sneer, flexing his hands for the draw.

When Farnsworth saw what was about to come, he pointed at Clay with a steady hand.
"Mister." Farnsworth said with a chilly smile. "You're about a step and a half from where you are and where you'll die."

And there it was... The Line. A gunslinging statement so complex in its fatal simplicity that the recipient could only widen his eyes, drool on himself and wait to be shot.

It took nearly ten seconds for Farnsworth Haversby to pull his gun. First he stubbed his thumb on the bar, and then he accidentally shoved his hand in his pocket. When he finally grasped the butt of his gun, his watch got caught on the holster and he had to tug until the band broke. It didn't matter. Clay "The Rat'ler" Smivingsly stood paralyzed the entire time--struck numb by some unseen force, the awesome power of... The Line.

Farnsworth finally emptied his gun into The Rat'ler's chest. Clay lurched back a step and a half, crumpled to the floor and promptly died.

The End