by Joe Cron

Chet Breen crouched tight against a cluster of waist-high creosote bushes, panting, as he turned to look back through the bushes toward the trail he was just on. Vince Placenko would be appearing at any moment. The trail was the width of a stagecoach, and across it were some larger shrubs and small trees, growing against the face of an eight-foot vertical wall of gray rock. He’d been chased on foot, and hoped his pursuer, not seeing Chet on the trail, would look in the shrubs across the trail as the larger, more inviting hiding place.

In the late-morning brightness, he wouldn’t go undiscovered where he was for long. Chet was also noticing that the sun was above the level of the rock face across the trail, and if Placenko did as Chet wanted and looked over there, confronting him in that position might put the sun in a bad spot. He couldn’t tell for sure. If so, he’d just have to deal with it. This was the plan now.

It was warm, but not hot. That would come in a few more hours. Chet was comfortable in his dark gray canvas trousers, black boots, and light blue chambray shirt. The shirt was buttoned to the top, with a dark blue bowtie. A gray, wide-brimmed hat, but no handgun or holster. Chet was carrying his rifle when Placenko saw him at the edge of town, and that was still at his side, in his right hand.

Just as well for defending himself. When his rifle was folded in his arms, he was faster than he was with a handgun, which was faster than most other people with a handgun. He kept himself out of the picture for marshal or sheriff, but he knew most folks would want him to be if he agreed.

Chet had too much going on to ever think about working as a lawman. He and his wife ran a small ranch in the area, with two sons and a daughter starting to come into helping age. They were going to be able to grow their operation for years, maybe even generations.

Placenko had a ranch in the area, too. The same area. With one long border right up against Chet’s ranch. That was one of the biggest reasons why Chet was being chased that day.

Goats had gone missing from Placenko’s ranch. Placenko was furious and blamed it on Chet. That in itself was the result of a series of misunderstandings between them. Placenko got it in his head that Chet wanted to take over Placenko’s ranch, so every little thing that came up was seen as Chet trying to run Placenko out.

None of that was true. Chet wanted his ranch to grow, but what that meant for land or anything else beyond what they already had was down the road. As far as Chet was concerned, they could both thrive as neighbors.

Chet had no real clue what could have happened to Placenko’s goats, but there was word, days earlier, from a traveling group, that a cougar was sighted in the area recently. Maybe the cat was doing it. Chet suggested as much, but Placenko was having none of it. In fact, after the second goat, Placenko was kind of off his rocker a little. He had no luck getting either the town marshal or the county sheriff involved, so he went after Chet himself.

There was a curve in the trail just before where Chet was now, and plenty of brush on either side. Chet used that to hide when he knew he was out of Placenko’s line of sight. He wasn’t trying to run away from Placenko completely, just until they were far enough out of town not to endanger bystanders. Then he could confront Placenko and end this stupid thing.

Placenko came into view, running down the path in Chet’s direction, gun drawn in his right hand. Placenko fancied himself a tough guy, and was in all black, though he was smaller than Chet, who was nearly six feet. Placenko was darting his head right to left, obviously thinking he would see Chet ahead of him when he rounded the curve. He slowed up, looked around some more for a moment, then took a few quick, cautious steps toward the rock face and larger vegetation across the trail. According to plan so far.

“All right, Breen,” said Placenko in a thin, irritating voice. As Chet had heard it, Placenko was born in the U.S., but his father came here from Russia, and learned English, but with an accent that left its mark on the next generation. With Placenko, it was more like just his style than a true accent, but it wasn’t really normal. He crept along, taking slow, single steps closer to the trees. His head bobbed up, down, and around as he tried to spot Chet in the brush. “I know you’re here somewhere. Come get what you got comin’.”

Chet stayed quiet and breathed the warm, dry trail air, filtered through the creosote bushes, so it had that earthy smell like it was about to rain. Creosote bushes did that. He was trying to wait the right amount of time for Placenko to be as far in and as close to the rock as he could be. If he faced Placenko in the open, this could go on forever; better to keep Placenko trapped in one place, even if that made him more volatile.

“Breen,” said Placenko.

Something in the tone felt to Chet that Placenko was about to turn, so he stood, his rifle folded in his arms in front of him. “Right here, Placenko.”

Placenko spun around and fired a shot. It slashed through the creosote bushes about eight feet away from Chet.

“All right,” said Chet without flinching, “I figured on that one. I startled you. But let’s talk this out.”

“Come out from the bushes and face me like a man.”

“Fine,” said Chet. Coming out from his hiding spot would let Chet move closer to Placenko, helping both with positioning and aim. Chet began stepping slowly around the edge of the cluster of bushes, keeping his arms folded around his rifle the whole time.

# # #

Vince watched as Breen walked out from the bushes holding his precious rifle. People liked to say he was pretty good with it, but Vince couldn’t believe anyone could sling a gun that large as fast as he could with his Colt. He kept that Colt pointed at Breen for now, low in his right hand, with his elbow bent, but out in front of him, where Breen could see.

Breen kept coming, slowly, and Vince didn’t want him too close. “That’s far enough,” said Vince, when Breen was maybe halfway across the trail, and still maybe forty feet away from Vince. Breen stopped. When he did, Vince slowly lowered his gun to his side, but kept it in his hand.

“You are trying to run me out,” said Vince.

“I’m not doing anything of the sort,” said Breen. The sun was behind Vince, who was in the shadow of the rock wall, but that was only a couple feet taller than Vince, and the sun was higher and shining on Breen. He was squinting some, and trying to move his head around to use the brim of his hat to shade the sun from his eyes.

“Why do you take my goats?” said Vince.

“I never took your goats. I told you that.”

“You are the only one who could. And bits of my goat were on your property.”

“Yes,” said Breen, “just like an animal would do. I told you there’s been a cougar sighting.”

“No cougar. Those drifters wouldn’t know a cougar if it ripped their arm off. There hasn’t been a cougar here in years.” As far as Vince knew, it was even before either of them had their ranches there. Breen was clever, and saying that traveling group claimed a sighting was slick. They were gone, so no one could ask them for details.

“Something else, then,” said Breen. “Hell, I don’t know. Don’t know who or what took your goats, but I know who didn’t.”

“You want my ranch,” said Vince. “You said so.”

“No, no, no. I’ve talked about growing my ranch, sure, but so have you, haven’t you? How and where that happens doesn’t mean taking over your ranch.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Vince, if I wanted you gone I could have just picked you off from the bushes, and it would still be self-defense.”

“No, you wouldn’t take that chance,” said Vince. “You’re smarter than that.”

As Vince was saying that, a shadow moved slowly and smoothly across Breen, and it was obvious he could see much better. Breen quickly unfolded his arms and the rifle swung forward. It was just as Vince suspected; Breen was just biding his time until he could make a move, but Vince was quick. He instinctively raised his Colt and fired, but Breen’s rifle discharged just before Vince’s gun.

Vince was an excellent shot, but somehow Breen actually had begun to move to his left as he fired. Vince’s shot struck him, and Breen spun violently clockwise.

Vince then watched as two bodies plopped to the earth. Breen landed face down in a puff of trail dust. And three feet to Vince’s right, the thud of a carcass, with a single bloody gunshot to the head, was that of a lifeless cougar.