Scream of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

time as the pedestrians began scattering out of the line of fire. “Who are you?”
    â€œThe man who’s gonna kill you and become famous, that’s who I am.”
    â€œHave I ever done you a harm?”
    â€œThat don’t make no never mind.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œBoots Lowery. Enough talk, MacCallister.”
    â€œYou really don’t want to do this, Boots. It isn’t worth it. Whatever you’re getting paid, it isn’t worth dying over.”
    â€œOld man, I think you’re a damned coward!” Boots hollered. “I don’t think you got no sand no more. I think you’re yellow. Now, draw, goddamn you!”
    â€œAfter you, Boots,” Jamie called. “It’s your play.”
    Boots was fast, and he did clear leather first, but as so often happens, he missed his first shot, the bullet whining off the bricks of a building.
    Jamie had turned sideways, to present a smaller target, and his shot was true. The bullet struck Boots in the center of his chest. The man lowered his gun arm as his fingers suddenly turned numb, his pistol clattering to the street. He looked down at the bloody shirt front, then lifted his head to stare at Jamie.
    â€œYou’ve killed me!” he whispered. “This ain’t the way it’s ’posed to be.”
    â€œBut that’s the way it is, kid,” Jamie said. “You wanted to dance, now pay the band.”
    Boots tried several times to pull his left-hand gun. His fingers fumbled at the butt until he finally got it clear of leather. He tried to cock the weapon but could not. The pistol slipped from his fingers, and Boots sat down hard in the middle of the street. He finally toppled over on one side.
    Jamie walked over to him and looked down. “Who paid you to try this, boy?”
    â€œGo to hell, MacCallister,” Boots whispered the words.
    Several police officers arrived, one of them saying, “I’ll take that pistol, mister.”
    Jamie looked at him and smiled, then stuck the hogleg back behind his sash. He turned and walked away just as the first few bits of snow began falling. The gathered crowd parted silently, to give him room.
    â€œThey’ll get you, MacCallister!” Boots managed to shout the words through his pain. “Your life ain’t worth a cup of spit.”
    Jamie kept walking.
    â€œSir!” another policeman called. “You can’t just walk off. You shot this man!”
    â€œThe man in the street shot first,” a citizen told the policeman.
    â€œBut I have to make a written report,” the policeman protested. “Stop, sir. Or I’ll be forced to place you under arrest.”
    Jamie stopped and turned around. “All right. Then just write down in your pad that Boots Lowery missed and Jamie Ian MacCallister didn’t.” Jamie turned and continued his walk up the street.
    The policeman put away his pencil and pad. “Oh, to hell with it,” he muttered. Then the name registered. “Jamie Ian MacCallister!” he hollered, his voice registering his shock.
    Jamie turned the corner and disappeared into the cold night.
    â€œMama!” Boots Lowery said weakly. “It hurts, mama!”
    A doctor pushed his way through the crowd, knelt down beside Boots, and opened the man’s coat and shirt. He inspected the wound. A moment later he looked up at the police and shook his head. “Better call the undertaker for this one. It won’t be long.”
    Boots started hollering.
    â€œLay still,” the doctor told him. “And make your peace with God.”
    â€œMacCallister!” Boots squalled. “This ain’t right. You’re an old man. I’m young.” He coughed up blood. “It’s ’posed to be you here in the street.”
    â€œWell, it isn’t,” the doctor said, standing up. He looked down at the young man. “You actually tried to kill Colonel