The dusty street has gone quiet, but Phaneuf knows the fight isn’t over. Only five bodies litter the sidewalk boards, the street, and the saloon’s balcony. Five bodies, when she knows that six outlaws make up Cleef’s band. There’s one more gunslinger.
Glancing around, Phaneuf sees no one else and decides it’s safe to reload. She flips her gun open and ducks her trunk into her pocket for bullets.
Then a gun clicks loudly behind her.
“Hold it right there, Sheriff.”
Keeping her trunk curled and forelimbs down, Phaneuf turns toward the voice. Cleef has stepped out of the alley between the saloon and general store. Now his gun aims for Phaneuf’s middle. The outlaw smirks nastily.
“Well now, Sheriff. I have to hand it to you. I did not expect such a big lady to move so quickly. Seems like I’m out of men.” Cleef laughs. “How’d you figure out our plan?”
Phaneuf flaps her ears, trying to remain cool.
“The other night in the saloon,” she says. “You all were drinking, couldn’t keep your stories straight, your mouths closed.” The sheriff smiles. “You might get away with that sloppiness around humans. But I don’t forget.”
Cleef chuckles.
“I guess I got a fix for that here.” He wiggles the gun. Then he carefully uncocks it with his thumb. He holsters it by his side.
“You surprised me, Sheriff. And I want to see how fast you really are.” He points at Phaneuf. “You’re holding one bullet there and your gun’s open. Mine’s at my side. Wanna bet on who’s faster?”
Widening his stance, Cleef holds his hand carefully next to his holstered gun.
Phaneuf shakes her head.
“Elephants never bet,” she says. “You’ve already lost.” She inhales deeply, holds it in. A breeze scratches grit across her face.
Time slows.
Cleef’s hand slaps against his hip as he starts to draw his gun.
Phaneuf sinks deeper into a solid squat and whips her trunk forward with the speed of four hundred muscles, thrusting her nostrils at Cleef. Her cheeks remained ballooned with air. The bullet pulled from her pocket is nowhere to be seen.
Cleef pulls the gun up and out of the holster, swinging the barrel relentlessly up toward the sheriff’s broad, gray forehead.
Phaneuf exhales sharply, driving the air out through her nostrils. The bullet from her pocket blasts out from her trunk, striking Cleef in the center of his chest. The outlaw gasps, hand convulsing. Cleef’s gun turns wide and fires impotently, blasting a chunk of dirt from the street and missing the sheriff by a yard.
As her opponent tumbles to the ground, dead, Phaneuf turns away.
“Guess I won, bet or not,” she says to the silent street.