Morwood tossed away his empty Glock and examined the gun he’d grabbed, a Ruger .357 Mag. He opened the cylinder. “Four rounds. We’ve got to move closer, cover both vehicles. You move first, I’ll cover.”

“Thanks.”

Watts bolted from behind the building and ran across the alleyway to a stone wall. A shot rang out; Morwood saw the flash and fired back at it. Watts gave him a thumbs-up and positioned himself to cover Morwood as he made his move.

Morwood decided he’d better go in a different direction. He crouched, moved to the other side of cover, then broke, running across the main street. This time a pair of shots rang out, but he managed to dive down behind the corner of a ruin without further injury.

Recovering his breath, he crouched, peering around the edge, trying to forget his throbbing hand. He now knew approximately where Bellingame was. Despite his gun hand being out of commission, it was still two against one, and Bellingame’s odds were not good.

“We’re closing in,” Watts called out. “There’s two of us, with fresh guns and ammo. You can surrender, or we can kill you. Your choice.”

The silence stretched out for a long moment. Then Bellingame called out: “Or I kill the both of you.”

“Tell that to your dead pals. All six of them. Or was it seven? I’ve lost count.”

A bitter laugh. “Then come get me, asshole.”

“I’ll bet you fancy yourself quite a shot,” called Watts.

No answer.

“Not a good shot, then?”

Morwood wondered what Watts’s game was, goading Bellingame like this.

“Better than you,” came the response.

“Well, then, I’ve got a proposition,” said Watts in a boastful tone. “Let’s settle this Old West style. You and me, right here in the street. We draw and see who’s the faster.”

“And have your partner shoot me down? No, thanks.”

“He’s a man of honor. If he gives you his word, you can trust him. Anyway, his gun hand got shot to pieces.”

Morwood could hardly believe what he was hearing. Had Watts gone crazy? He opened his mouth to protest, but then Bellingame’s voice rang out.

“A right old-time shootout. And what if I win?”

“Then I’m dead and you can help yourself to a vehicle and take off. But you ain’t going to win, because I can tell you’re one of those cowboys who’s all hat and no cattle.”

“You’re a big talker there, mister.”

“It’s your only option. Unless you want to just give up. No doubt the government would be happy to offer lifetime accommodations.”

This was insane. What was Watts thinking? But Morwood decided to keep holding his tongue.

“All right,” said Bellingame. “If your pal gives his word of honor. We both holster our guns and come out into the street. I give the count and we draw.”

“Agent Morwood,” Watts called out. “You okay with this? Word of honor?”

Morwood didn’t answer right away. It was crazy, it was stupid, and yet the alternative was more shooting—and God only knew how that would end up. Watts had something up his sleeve … and rather than mess it up, it seemed better to let it play out.

“I give my word,” he called out.

“Okay, Bellingame! Let’s do it.”

Morwood moved around the corner to where he had a good view of the street. He saw Bellingame emerge from behind a wall, 1911 in its belt holster and the duster flapping behind him in the wind. And now here came Watts, from the other end of town, moving out into the street, in his cowboy hat and two six-guns strapped crosswise around his hips, grips facing inward above the tooled Slim Jim holsters. Christ, it was like a time machine. But they were fifty yards apart, and that was a hell of a distance with a revolver, even with time to aim through sights. But here they were, shooting from the hip—and Watts with only one round left.

“Ready to fill your hand?” Watts yelled.

Bellingame nodded. “On three. One. Two. Three!”

Bellingame drew and—in the same moment—Watts skipped away unexpectedly, pivoting to one side with the athleticism of a ballet dancer. The shot missed.

“What the fuck—!” Bellingame went to fire again, but in the moment of delay Watts drew and fired with astonishing speed, fanning the Peacemaker’s hammer with his palm, and Bellingame’s curse was cut short by a bullet in the mouth. He bit down with a gargled cry, toppled backward, and lay still.

After a moment of shock, Morwood stepped out from behind the wall and walked over, staring down at Bellingame. The man’s eyes were wide open in surprise, blood spreading across the dirt below.

“Damn,” said Watts, holstering the Peacemaker. “Bad shot.”

“Bad shot?” Morwood cried. He’d never seen anything like that in his life.

“An inch too low. I was hoping for the bridge of his nose.”

“You’ve been practicing that maneuver?”

“Most of my life.”

“And back there, when you drew on those two simultaneously? That too?”

“Ever since I was five,” said Watts, “I’ve wanted to be the fastest gun in the West. I practiced all the old moves, even though I knew they were just a part of history.” He paused. “Nice in a way—getting to use them for real, I mean.”