“Nothing to say, eh?”
“Let’s do it,” Jesco said.
“Very well.” Smiling, always smiling, Hijino slowly rose, and just as slowly pushed the chair back with his foot. He lowered his hands to his sides and wriggled his fingers, then stood stock-still. “I am ready when you are, señor. How should we do this?
Have someone count to three? Or perhaps have someone drop a glass, and when the glass hits the floor, we draw?”
“Just you and me.”
Their eyes met and locked.
Jesco emptied his mind of everything, save that moment. When Hijino’s hand flashed down and out, his own was a mirror image. It was his Colt that boomed first, a fraction of a heartbeat before Hijino’s. He felt a searing pain even as Hijino rose onto the tips of his toes, and the taunting smile was replaced by astonishment. Then Hijino crashed onto the table, upending it, and both smashed onto the floor.
Jesco gingerly probed his shirt. The slug had taken a chunk of flesh above his hip. He was bleeding, but he would live. He walked to the bar, the onlookers scrambling out of his way. The bartender slid a bottle across, and Jesco treated himself to a long swig. “I’m obliged,” he said, and walked out. It wasn’t until he went to unwrap the reins that he realized he was still holding his Colt. He slid it into its holster, forked leather, and rode out of San Pedro without looking back.