I reckon everyone from Silver City to Carson’s Gulch knows that you’re here in my town, you sour-bellied varmint. And everyone knows that having two gunslingers like us in a town like this is like putting two ruttin’ bobcats in a burlap sack. You see, this town, pardner, just ain’t big enough for the both of us.
Unless, of course, we can work out some sort of equitable, mutually agreeable compromise. Then maybe we could both stay.
There’s gonna be blood between us, hombre, because I’d just as soon spit in your eye as look at you. I got me an itchy trigger finger, and there’s only one thing that can scratch it—and that’s filling your flea-bitten hide full of lead at high noon tomorrow.
Exceptin’, that is, unless you wanna have some sort of mediated discussion, during which we could each air our respective dissatisfactions and maybe find a way to avoid bloodshed. You know, talk things out in a civilized manner and try to find some middle ground we can both agree to. That might be better’n fightin’.
I heard what you said about me bein’ yellow-bellied, an’ you’re lower’n a bloodsuckin’ tick’s belly if you think I’m gonna stand for it, you bowlegged half-breed. Though, in all fairness, you mighta just been callin’ me yella in the heat of the moment and didn’t really mean it. But I don’t cotton to bein’ called a welsher by no man, if that’s what you meant to imply.
So I dare you to step across this here line I drew in the street, you mangy owlhoot. You done said some low-down things about Nacogdoches Slim, and I’m gonna make you slap leather. You’re gonna be coffin stuffin’s before the sun sets tomorrow, pard, unless you can come up with some other way of settling our differences. Like maybe we could sit down and talk about how we feel, and through open and honest communication, each try to get a better sense of the other’s perspective. Or maybe we could exchange gifts as a way of saying sorry for the hurt we’ve caused.
Oh, if you do agree to have a gunfight and don’t like where I done drew the line, I could draw it in another street. Or even in a different location on this street, you back-bitin’ peckerwood.
And don’t go lookin’ for no help from that weak-kneed sheriff, neither. He’s been scared to death of Nacogdoches Slim ever since I showed him I could plea-bargain a manslaughter charge better’n any man since Sam Houston hisself. And, besides, it was self-defense. So it’s up to you an’ me to settle this, mano a mano, until one of us lies dead. But hopefully, it doesn’t have to come to that.
