Deadly Day At Dusty Creek

With a flick of his finger Marshall Sherman lifted his hat off his forehead, which let him get a better view of the Goolsby boys, all three of them.
   He and they faced off from opposite ends of Main Street, the Marshall down by the Chinese laundry, the Goolsby Boys up past Billings' wainwright shop. All three of the brothers hated the Marshall, but the oldest one, Hiram, hated him most of all. The Marshall had sent him to Dodge City for horse stealing, and Hiram had been sentenced to hang for the crime.
   Clearly the authorities in Dodge City had failed that execution.
   With Hiram back the boys were out for revenge, and with three-to-one odds it looked like the Marshall was mere heartbeats away from finding a spot in the cemetery with all others who had ever crossed the Goolsbys.
   "I'm a merciful man, Marshall," Hiram said, glaring down Main Street with his one good eye. "If you clear out of Dusty Creek, I might not shoot you in the back."
   "You know I can't do that, Hiram," the Marshall drawled. "Dusty Creek is where I keep all my stuff."
   Agonized groans erupted from behind sacks of grain destined for the mill.
   Hiram spat, his fingers twitching on the handles of his revolvers. "Are you having fun at my expense?"
   "Wouldn't dream of it," the Marshall replied. "I'd never have a battle of wits with an unarmed man."
   The dance hall girls watching from the top floor of The Trail's End Saloon frowned, then backed from the window when Hiram glared at them.
   "All right, that sounded like an insult," Hiram said. He looked at his brothers who both nodded slowly. "Though it has a familiar ring."
   The Marshall wiped at his forehead, suddenly all too aware of the heat. And the eyes of all the townsfolk. "Well, I never could get anything by you. Which isn't odd considering you... the fact that you've only got the one..."
   Hiram bristled and one of his brothers pulled his revolver. The Marshall caught glimpses of several townspeople turning away, going back to their everyday tasks.
   "Hold on, wait a minute," the Marshall urged. "I... I meant to say that... uh... I could never get anything by you, except on your right side. Because that's the eye you lost when... oh..."
   Shutters closed on the saloon, the blacksmith went back to hammering out horse shoes, and even Wing in the Chinese laundry returned to stirring the vat of unmentionables from the whorehouse.
   "Looks like you're dying out here, Marshall," Hiram said. He raised his revolver and fired once, dropping the Marshall where he stood.
   "I'd call that a mercy killing," Hiram sneered. Giggles sounded from the top floor of the saloon, and the showgirls looked down admiringly.
   Mayor Green plucked the silver star from Marshall Sherman's corpse and approached Hiram Goolsby. "There's a vacancy, and horse thief or not I think you might be the man for the job."
   Hiram raised his still-smoking revolver to his lips and blew. "I aim to please."