His arrival came with the swirl of dust devils, racing across the plain and into the town of Alton.

Henry Atkins and his wife Sarah watched him from behind a dust covered window in their hardware store. Sam Frieberg, a cowhand with the Triple K, struggled hard to see, as he stood behind them.

“Is that the one you said you saw camped down by Morgan’s Mill?” Henry asked.
“That’s the one. He’s a gunfighter named Drago,” said Frieberg, taking his hat off and slamming it against his leg; sending up an immediate cloud of gray particles.
“What do you suppose he wants here?” Henry asked, wiping the window with a soiled cloth.
“Don’t know. Maybe he’s just passing through,” replied Sam, shrugging his narrow shoulders.
“Yeah, maybe… Maybe not,” said Henry, his brow furrowed.
“You told the Marshal yet?” Sarah asked.
“Haven’t seen him. Heard he went to Dixon for a few days, supposed to be having the trial for that rustler,” replied Sam.
Sarah gave a “humph.” “Fine time for him to be gone.”

The three continued to stare as Drago’s horse trotted past.

A gust of wind caught the brim of Dargo’s hat, sending ripples through its brim. If not for being anchored by a drawstring, under a square chin, it would have blown off.

Drago’s head turned left, then right; his right hand rested on the butt of his revolver. His gloved hand pulled on the leather harness, guiding his horse to a hitching post in front of the Dry Gulch Saloon. His left boot still in the stirrup, he fluidly swung his right leg over the horse’s rump. His right boot struck the dirt, his leg bending at the knee, like a well oiled spring. Removing his left foot from the stirrup, he turned, taking in his surroundings.

Removing his gloves, then his hat, he ran his fingers through thick collar length brown hair; then repositioned the hat, placing the drawstring back under his chin.

He adjusted his gun-belt, with its special front slanting holster, then tied his horse to the hitching post. Using his gloves, he slapped at his pant legs, sending thick dust into the air. Replacing the gloves with a clean cloth from his saddlebags, he swiped at the dark leather on his finely crafted Mexican boots with their silver spurs. Removing his revolver from its well cared for holster, he wiped its smooth dark blued surface down with a second cloth; then slid the weapon into its special leather cover.

Only then did he step onto the wooden platform that connected the downtown businesses. He grabbed one of the saloon’s weathered batwing doors, looked inside, then swung both doors inward, their rusted hinges crying out, breaking the silence.

Bartender Earl Small dried a freshly washed glass, staring at Drago as he entered. Sitting the glass on the bar’s smooth surface, he asked dryly, “What’s it gonna be cowboy?”

Three men sat at a table at the rear of the bar, playing cards. The three stopped playing, all eyes watching Drago as he walked toward the bar. Drago looked at a large portrait on the wall behind the bar: a well-endowed woman reclined on a parlor bench in nothing but her undergarments.

“A whiskey,” replied Drago, throwing some coins near the glass in front of him.

Drago concentrated his gaze on the men at the rear of the bar, commanding, “Leave the bottle.”

Earl brought a fresh bottle of whiskey, sliding it in front of Drago, then collected the coins.

“Staying a while, or just passing through?” Earl asked, his blue eyes looking out from under a heavily creased brow.

Drago didn’t answer, just poured himself a drink with his left hand; then downed it, never taking his eyes off the three men.

“Any of you know Wade Steel?” Drago asked, directing the question at the three card-players.
“Who’s asking?” said a card-player with a large scar running horizontally along his left cheekbone.
“The name’s Drago, Kurt Drago.”
“Well Drago, what would you be wanting with Wade?” the scarred player asked.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Drago casually announced, a sneer crossing his thin lips.
“Supposing he doesn’t want to be killed?” asked the scarred player, annoyance in his voice.
“If I find him, he won’t have much choice.”

Drago poured another shot, slinging it to the back of his throat.

“In that case, I’m Wade Steel,” said the man with the scar. The other two players rose from the table and headed toward a far wall.
“Thought you’d be a bigger man, what with all the talk of how good you are with a gun,” said Drago, now facing Steel, placing his empty glass back on the bar with his left hand.
“Look Drago, I’ve never heard of you, don’t have a quarrel with you. Obviously you’re a young man. You can walk away and still have a long life ahead of you.”
“I’m twenty-five, killed my first man when I was eighteen. You must be about thirty-five now Steel. How many you killed?”
“Never kept count. Besides, people change. I’ve changed.”

Steel was now standing, a holstered revolver on his left hip.

“Well I heard you got twenty notches to your credit. Heard there’s none faster than you. I come to prove there is. Now you can either fight me, or walk out of here the coward you’ll become.”

Steel took two steps to his left, away from the table.

“How unfortunate that a youngster like you has to die before he even knows what life is all about.”

Steel reached for his gun, his fingers touching the grips. Fire and hot lead came from the barrel of Drago’s revolver. The left side of Steel’s chest opened, muscle and bone destroyed as the lead projectile tore a ragged path. Slumping to the floor, Steel’s eyes showed disbelief. His body twitched, then lay still.

Drago looked at the two men who’d left the table, then at Earl.

“Fair fight! You saw it. He went for his gun first.”
“The Marshal will want to talk with you when he gets back. Jack, Blake, go get Brent Miller. Tell him he’s got one to bury,” said Earl, shaking his head.

Drago, a menacing look in his eyes, turned to the bar.

“I guess that means you don’t have any law right now. Good, I’ll be the Marshal. Drinks are on the house. While you’re at it go over to that restaurant across the street, Amy’s, have them send over the biggest steak they have. Some biscuits and gravy too. Tell them to put it on my tab.”

Earl started to object, then saw Drago’s hand going toward the revolver. He took off his apron and walked across the street.

That night Drago slept in the best bed McGuire’s Hotel offered: Doug McGuire’s protests overruled by the threat of cold steel. McGuire wisely hustled his twelve-year-old son Mark and his wife out the back of the hotel.

The next morning Drago took breakfast at Amy’s, then went back to the Dry Gulch for some more whiskey.

“Nice of you folks putting me up like this,” Drago said, his left foot resting on a tabletop as he leaned back in a chair.”
“The Marshal is not gonna like this one bit,” Earl said, giving Drago a dirty look from behind the bar.
“I wouldn’t be too concerned with what your Marshal will think. I mean, I just killed the fastest gun in these parts. Your Marshal is not gonna want to give his life for what little he makes here,” said Drago, lifting a glass of beer.

Two hours later a horse approached, its hooves clip-clopping on the dry parched earth. Drago slowly got up and looked out the entrance to the bar. Down the street he saw a man on a horse, stopped, talking with two townspeople. One of the people pointed toward the bar. Drago went back to his seat, poured himself a drink and swished the contents back and forth in the glass before downing it.

The bat-wings opened and a man with a badge stepped in; the hat he wore sat high on his forehead, tilted back. His thick hair, exposed by the hat’s cant, showed gray; his face creased and leathery from too much time in the elements. The boots he wore were worn and cracked, as was the gun-belt around his middle. The revolver he carried, however, looked well cared for.

“Hi Charlie,” said Earl, a relieved look on his face.
“Hi Earl. Heard you’ve had a little excitement since I left.”
“Yes we have Marshal, thanks to that young man sitting over there,” Earl said, annoyance in his voice, pointing toward Drago.

The bar doors swung open and Henry Atkins cautiously entered.

“Sorry to bother you Marshal, but Hardin is in town. Said he’d be leaving his gun-belt in your office till he’s ready to leave.”
“Tell John that’ll be just fine,” said the Marshal, patting Henry on the back.
“Not ‘the’ John Hardin,” said Drago, suddenly rising from his chair.
The Marshal turned to Drago. “Yes, John Wesley Hardin. Do you know him?”
“Do I know him?! Who the hell doesn’t,” said Drago. “The meanest son-of-a-bitch that ever packed an iron.”
“Oh, I don’t know. John hasn’t caused me any trouble. Not for a longtime anyway. Now, what’s this I hear you killed Steel?”
“Sure did. He drew first. Self-defense on my part. Just ask Earl there.”
“So I was told. It’s too bad about Wade. I liked the man. Then there’s this bit about you not paying for drinks, food and lodging.”
“You just got some generous citizens here in Marshal.”
“That’s not what I heard. Now supposing you start hauling out some cash and pay these people back.”

A sinister smile crossed Drago’s hard features.

“Who’s gonna make me?” Drago replied, a sneer appearing on his youthful face.
“Look son, don’t make this any worse than it already is. Just pay your tab and be on your way. We don’t want any trouble here.”
“I don’t think I want to do that,” said Drago, his right hand inches from his revolver.
“Well, then you’ve given me no choice. Take your gun-belt off and toss it on the table next to you.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we have a big problem.”

Drago went for his gun, his hand a blur. A thunderous roar came from where the Marshal stood. Drago’s face contorted with pain, his revolver suddenly lying at his feet. Blood sprayed from a shattered hand. Drago dropped to his knees, holding what was left of his right hand with his left.”

“But you… ” Drago said, disbelief replacing the sneer.
“Oh he’s the one that shot you alright,” said Earl, coming from behind the bar with a towel to place over Drago’s hand.
“Damned fast isn’t he? It always amazes me how he can draw, fire and return his gun to its holster so fast the eye can’t follow. Ole Wade learned the hard way too. How do you suppose he got that scar he carried on his face? Of course the Marshal’s slowed a little with age,” Earl droned on, excitement in his voice.
“Marshal, what’s your name?” asked Drago, between gritted teeth; as Earl poured whiskey over the wound.
“Charlie, Charlie Ronan.”

A month later a gunslinger pulled his horse up in front of Hurley’s Livery.

“Hey kid, take care of my horse. Give him a rub down and a feed bag,” said the gunman.
“Yes sir, how long you gonna be in town?”
“Just long enough to kill a man named Charlie Ronan. Shouldn’t be long at all,” said the gunman, taking his gun from its holster. Pulling the hammer back to a half-cock, he rotated the cylinder, smiling at the rachet sounds coming from its action.
“Sure, I’ll take care of him,” said the kid, taking the horse’s reins and glancing at the gun with a look of discomfort.
“What’s your name kid?”
“Drago, Kurt Drago,” said the kid, as he used his left hand to guide the rider’s horse away.

The gunslinger stared at the kid’s right hand, two fingers missing.

“How did you do that?” he asked, pointing to the kid’s maimed hand.
“About the easiest way to explain it is just plain stupidity. But then I’m sure you’ll understand, shortly.” Drago replied, a smile crossing his chiseled features.