slug. This sawbones could . . .
KILL OR CURE
“This oughtta do it,” the yellow-haired man said casually.
He quickly lifted his sixgun and fired just above Martin Taft’s head. Taft flinched. He couldn’t help himself.
“You’re gonna pay for this, you cocky bastard,” he snarled. “You got no excuse for gunplay—”
Doc Dart thought that was an odd thing to say to an outlaw. In any case, it did not have the desired effect. The outlaw steadied his smoking gun and lowered it a hair. If he triggered again, the sheriff would be a dead man.
“Give ’em what they want, Doc!” Taft repeated tightly.
Instead, Dart gave the outlaws what they deserved.