The sun shone down hot on the dusty, dirt street of the old Western town of Rusty Spurs. From the windows and doors of the shops and saloons that lined each side, men and women peered out, entranced by the desperate life and death scene playing out before them.

Mabel Plumtree, eighty years old with white hair and wearing a purple dress with ruffles, stuck her nose as close to the glass of the Apothecary Store watching, the clicking of her knitting needles not stopping as she knitted without even looking. Fred Hanson, ten years old and dressed in his Sunday finest, grinned with excitement as he watched from the candy store, sucking on his lemon candy stick.

Sheriff Lionel B. Huffy stood in the middle of the street, squinting in the sun, his hand resting lightly on his six-gun in its holster on his hip. At the other end of the street, grinning with yellow teeth and a face full of dirty stubble stood Juan Hidalgo, a.k.a. the Mexican Meurte, his hands held just above his pistols slung over his chest.

A dog peeked out from under the wooden floorboards of the walkway, thought better of it and snuck back into the cool shade. From a ledge on the top of the Sundries stores, a crow watched and cawed.

Some said that Sheriff Lionel brought this upon himself; after all, he shot all of Hidalgo’s men at one time or another, during one train robbery or stage holdup or another, the last two being right in Rusty Spurs when the Mexican Meurte and his gang tried to rob the bank. People all agreed that you didn’t mess with the Mexican Meurte, or you paid the consequences. There was a trail of dead sheriffs and bank guards behind him, as well as the occasional bartender or barber who rubbed Hidalgo the wrong way. People who crossed the Mexican Meurte better have their spot at Boot Hill ready.

It was so quiet and still someone coming upon the scene might have thought it was a painting of a Western town. It stayed that way for what seemed like forever, and then Lionel spoke.

“We don’t have to end it this way, Juan.”

Hidalgo spit on the ground and scowled at Lionel. “You say that as you insult me. I am the Mexican Meurte. For that, you will die twice!”

Sheriff Lionel grinned, thinking how dramatic the bandit was, always with the gestures to try and add to his reputation. So petty, these outlaws, and slow witted, not thinking about their impeding death, only wanting to be sure they were remembered.

“I will give you the count of three to drop your guns, Mexican Meurte. After that, you will be the victim of your own poor decisions.”

“Start counting, lawman. Soon you will be dead, and this will by my town.”

A silence, as they two combatants stared at each other.

“One.”

A collective gasp went up from the town of onlookers. Every eye was glued to either Lionel or Juan.

“Two.”

The two men moved their hands closer to their guns.

“Thr…”

Suddenly an explosion of red hair and frilly dress burst out of the General Store and ran towards the Sheriff. All eyes turned to the red tornado. It was April the Sheriff’s eight-year old daughter!

She ran to Lionel and grabbed him around the waist.

“Daddy! I just got here! What are you doing in the street? Is that a bad man?”

Lionel knelt down by his daughter and frowned. “April, you shouldn’t be here! Go back to the store right now!”

The Mexican Muerte grinned, then he laughed. “You think to play upon my sympathies, Sheriff? Show me your cute little daughter to save your life? The Mexican Meurte has no heart. It won’t work!”

April looked at the Mexican Meurte. “Is that the outlaw you told me about, Daddy? Is he the one that kilt all those good men and robbed the stagecoach?”

“Yes dear, now you really have to go.”

“Is he going to try and shoot you, Daddy?”

“I am going to kill your Daddy, little girl, and then you can be my daughter. How would you like that?” The Mexican Meurte smiled at April, hands on his knees.

“You’re not going to hurt my Daddy!”

April pulled her Daddy’s gun out of its holster, aimed and fired.

With a look of shock, the Mexican Meurte stared at the new hole in his chest. Then he fell backwards into the dirt.

Lionel stared at his daughter, mouth open. April smiled back at him.

“Are you mad at me, Daddy?”

“No Darling. I just think the town doesn’t have to worry about who to make Sheriff when I retire.”

Lionel gave his daughter a hug. April handed Lionel back his gun and he put it back in its holster.

“Now can you buy me some sarsaparilla?”