Streak stopped short and turned around. Corteen was watching him, and their eyes met. “The sheriff was murdered, if you want the truth, sir,” Streak said. “That’s not what I heard, Marshal.” “So you know who I am,” remarked Streak coldly. “We’re even, Corteen.” The tall gambler barely moved his lips, as he said, “I don’t like the way yuh said that, my friend.” “Could it be that you’re a little ashamed, Corteen?” The gambler’s face tightened perceptibly, his hands dropped to his sides. He had two holstered guns under that long coat, the butts close to the front, ready for a cross-draw. The thumbs and fingers of both hands gently touched the edges of that open coat. Then he leaned forward a little. “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, Malone,” he said harshly. “By sundown it’ll be too small. We can’t both stay here.” “I’ll be here--watchin’ it shrink, Corteen.” “I hope you have written a will,” said Corteen coldly. Streak Malone smiled slowly. “I’ll make yuh a gamblin’ proposition, Corteen. We’ll both make out our wills, leavin’ everythin’ to the winner.” “What’s the idea?” asked Corteen curiously. “I’d like to inherit that vest. You probably stole it, but--” “I what? Why, you streak-haired--” Corteen forgot the sunset deadline. He went for his crossed guns. Men fell away from behind him, as his hands flashed up, but Streak’s draw--they didn’t see it. Corteen’s guns were still only waist-high, when Streak’s forty-five blasted from his hip. The tall gambler jerked back, his eyes tightly shut. His fingers relaxed and the two guns fell to the floor. Slowly his knees bent and he collapsed. Streak had stepped back, cocked gun still at his waist-line, his eyes searching the men in the room. Monk Moore’s eyes widened a little, but there was no other sign of shock or emotion. Zero Brant had jumped away from the bar, staring at Corteen, flat on the floor. “Well, there’s one gun yuh won’t have to pay for, Brant,” said Mack Shell’s voice, and then he continued quietly: “All right, Streak--I’m behind yuh.” “Thank yuh, Shell.” Brant didn’t speak, no matter what he thought. He had seen the deadly efficiency of the new marshal of Silver Butte. One of the men said flatly, “Corteen reached first.” That remark settled any argument as to the aggressor. Shell said, “Brant, you brought him here--you take care of him.” Streak turned and walked out, but Mack Shell didn’t have the same confidence in that gang; he backed out. They met outside and walked over to the office. As they stopped in front of the office to look back at the Silver Dollar, Mack Shell said, “You spoke a language they understand, Streak. Dan Corteen was fast with a gun but you beat him. Ten minutes ago you was known as the fool who took a dangerous job. Now yuh’re Streak Malone, marshal of Silver Butte, who wouldn’t wait for sunset.” “I’m sorry,” said Streak. “I don’t want to kill anybody but he was out to kill me.”