Trouble Trail — Max Brand

THERE WAS TWELVE THOUSAND DOLLARS ON MY HEAD

Rapp had tried to kill me for it, and as I looked at him lying on the ground, beaten, I smiled.

Just then, though I didn't hear nothing, I felt a sort of quiver run through me, and jerking my head over my shoulder, the first thing I seen was the sheriff, Wally Ops, riding out of the trees full speed not two hundred yards away, and beside him were a dozen more spreading out to each side, zooming down at me as fast as they could spur.

Wally Ops! I told myself that the rest didn't count, that I had always been a case of just him or me, that these years of chasing had got to end --

I jumped my Colt up, shoulder high, for a long shot at him. My hand was good and steady, and I was mad enough to see true and clear, but when I had Ops riding at me down the sights, somehow I couldn't pull the trigger. I jammed the gun into the holster at my hip and spun around on my heel to run for it. Rapp laughing, “You're a fool after all, Dickon!”

A fool not to shoot, he meant, and judging from what happened next, he was probably right…