Billy loved the feel of his Remington 1875 .45 Long Colt, gold revolver in his hand. He loved to warm the cold steel in his hands on an early winter’s morning. He practiced every day-five hours a day no matter how he felt. The only thing Billy ever remembered was that he wanted to be the fastest gun in the world. He was, but there was no one around to try him.
Billy was the fastest at everything in the small town of Independence, Missouri, where he grew up. It was just east of Kansas City but nobody ever heard of it. He was too young to serve in the war between the nations and that bothered him a lot. Somehow, Billy had to prove himself. So day after day he practiced. The first gun he ever used was a Colt 1851 Navy Revolver. It was the old cap and ball loading system his dad used in the war. It was light but awfully cumbersome to load and fire. In a real gunfight it could be deadly for the user, that is. If you missed your target (or the man standing in front of you) you were dead. Too much time to reload. Besides, no real gunfighter except Wild Bill Hickok used that old Navy Revolver contraption. Wild Bill never missed and neither did Billy.
Billy told his mom it was time to make it on his own. His dad died right after the war from drinking too much. Probably to forget the war that took away so many boys and men. “Be careful out there, Son and don’t get yourself killed with that gun or that mouth of yours,” was the last thing she said as Billy rode off in the midday heat of early July. “Don’t you worry about me Ma; I know how to take care of myself.” She blew him a kiss and waved goodbye.
Destination: Springfield, Missouri-where the action is. Billy wanted to get there before the centennial on the 4th of July. Rumor was Wild Bill Hickok would be there along with Calamity Jane. Imagine, Wild Bill and his gang of ruffians. Billy had never been so excited.
He rode for almost two days and nights just stopping long enough to water and rest his horse. He got to Springfield just as the day was breaking. It was already hot and Billy watered his horse and passed out behind the bunkhouse. He only had ten dollars and did not want a waste one-penny on room and board.
He woke up to loud fireworks and gunfire. It was high noon and the town of Springfield was celebrating early. He checked on his horse and then got a shave and hot bath, then some grub. Steak and corn with some day old bread and gravy. He was famished from all that riding. He checked (old Sal) his horse into the livery stable and headed to the Saloon. No one but the bartender and a couple of saloon girls were inside. They tried to tempt Billy out of his ten dollars. Billy wasn’t buying. Everyone was outside shooting and a yelling. “What in the name of double tarnation is everyone shouting about?!” Billy mumbled to himself.
Just then, out of the corner of his eye Billy saw a figure. It was the unmistakable silhouette of a man revered to be not only the fastest but also best shot in the west, Wild Bill Hickok. Billy stood in awe and watched his hero laughing at all the commotion. Then Wild Bill looked over and made eye contact with Billy. His reddish-blond hair glowed in the sun. Billy was impressed. All the stories of legend and lore could not compare to the man standing in front of him. Billy was inclined to think that Wild Bill was just a great gunfighter. But now, for the first time, he realized that the man was bigger than the legend.
Since no one else was inside the saloon except for the bartender who was busy stocking up spirits for the night and the ladies of the night were upstairs preparing for their horizontal customers, Billy started playing with his gun. Just some basic quick-draw and gun tricks he learned from his dad. His dad was not fast, but after the war and until the day he died he never missed what he was aiming at. Billy was the same way only lightning fast.
Before long, a crowd gathered inside the saloon to see this young greenhorn with a gun. Billy was bragging that he was the fastest gun alive and no one could even clear their holster before he put a bullet in their belly. “If anybody ever crowds me into slapping leather, it’ll be the last living thing they ever do,” Billy boasted to an adoring audience. “What’s this I hear about you slapping leather kid?” Billy swung his body around with incredible swiftness only to realize his gun was still on the bar. He felt foolish. It was Wild Bill with a couple of his friends. One of them, a dark haired man with a pale face and thin mustache had the coldest grey eyes Billy ever saw. He looked different, acted different. He looked at Billy as though killing him meant nothing more than shooting a lame horse. Suddenly, Billy was petrified.
“It seems you’re pretty handy with that .45,” Hickok said. “What’s it to ya?” Billy said and with a huge lump in his throat trying not to stutter. “Do you know who I am kid?”
“Sure I know you are, everybody knows who you are. I saw you standing just outside a few minutes ago-knew right away who you were. But now you’re gonna know who I am. The name is Billy McGuire, the fastest gun ever,” Billy said almost believing it was true. Was it true? “Is that a fact kid? Listen kid, I’m in hurry so I’m gonna make this quick. Saying you’re the fastest and proving it is two different things. I don’t believe you’re prepared to do the latter.” Hickok said this with absolute certainty in his voice. No hesitation, no staggering. The saloon was dead quiet and everyone was waiting for Billy’s reply.
The truth of the matter was that the three fastest guns in the west were in the same room at the same time and didn’t even know it. Like Billy said, everyone knew Wild Bill Hickok was fast. But it was the man with the cold eyes that worried Billy. The only advantage Billy had is that no one knew anything about him or how fast he really was. Wild Bill tried to lighten the mood.
“Listen kid, I’m not in the mood for any killing today. It’s the hundred-year anniversary of our country for Chrissakes. Let me buy you a beer and we’ll call it even. Billy was truly humbled by this legend in front of him. Nothing could have prepared him for his charm. “Since you put it that way Mr. Hickok, I’ll take you up to on your offer.” “Just hold on one second there, kid,” the man with the grey eyes said as he stepped in front of Hickok. “I got a better idea, why don’t you apologize to my friend for your rudeness. Besides, I’m not the mood to listen to some boy talk bad about my friend.”
Somehow, Billy new this would happen. The man with the cold gray killer eyes did not care about the centennial party. He just wanted to kill. About a minute after he stepped in front of Wild Bill there was some commotion followed by some arguing. They were still about fifty feet away so Billy couldn’t hear everything but he definitely heard the killer say, “Stay out of this Bill, besides you owe me one.” Then the pale-faced man with a black hat, black vest and white shirt walked forward about ten feet and said, “What was that you said about slapping leather? I’m still waiting for your apology to my friend; nobody talks to Wild Bill thataway.”
The silence became desperate. Billy was only nineteen years old and didn’t want to die. But what could he do? Back down from his first real gun fight. And make no mistake; this was going to be deadly gunplay.
“I ain’t apologizing to nobody Mr. and you ain’t gonna make me. Now I know you’re used to having your way but that ain’t gonna happen here. I can guarantee you that.” Old grey eyes started to peel his lips back and reach down with his arms extended all the way. “Make your play, boy.”
Everything in Billy’s life meant nothing. Everything was black. No memories of home. He only remembered one thing his dad told him when he got back from the war. “Don’t ever give a man a second chance if he’s standing in front of you with the intent of killing, aim for the gut and you’re bound to hit something.”
Billy slowly took his gun from the bar and lowered it to his holster. If the grey-eyed man was alone he probably would’ve gunned him down right there and call it self-defense. But he wasn’t alone, there were at least thirty witnesses and to do that would be murder. Simply murder. Billy could not make out what type of gun the grey-eyed man had because the gun was hidden in the shadows, but his eyes were in the sunlight. The longer he waited the more he realized why this man was such a killer. Those eyes, those cold gray eyes were mesmerizing, just waiting for Billy to make a mistake.
The tension became too much for both men and pulled their guns at precisely the same time. Billy watched in slow motion. The grey-eyed man cleared the holster with a shiny silver barreled gun that looked like a Colt .45 a split-second before Billy. Billy wondered what would be written on his tombstone. Billy cleared the holster with his Remington and had it pointed at the killer’s belly, just like his daddy told him. But it was too late or at least Billy thought it was too late. For some unknown reason the grey-eyed gunslinger kept moving the barrel of his gun upward. Billy’s mind flashed because he knew what that meant. The killer wanted no mistakes; put a bullet in the brain, thataway no one walks away. But he waited too long and Billy shot first. The cold grey eyes looked into Billy’s as if to say, “This ain’t the way it’s supposed to be.” Then a geyser of blood shot from his midsection as he went down on both knees and then head first on the hard maple floor. No one in the saloon said a word.
Billy put his Remington 1875 .45 Long Colt, gold revolver back in his holster. Wild Bill Hickok made his way over and said, “Do you have any idea who you just killed?”
“No I don’t, and I don’t care to know. I ain’t got any taste for killing. I knew he was a killer from his eyes. Those cold, grey eyes. I know he would have killed me and probably would’ve forgotten about it in the morrow. But that don’t change how I feel now. I feel like a killer. I feel alone. I feel like going home but I know just as sure as the sun in the sky. There ain’t no going back from a killing.”