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young, people naturally called him kid for lack of a known name.
    “Of interest?” Kid said, appearing thoughtful over the question. “I got hot coffee and a bowl of flapjack dough ready for the skillet, if that’s what you mean.”
    That reply produced a chuckle from Vince.“Matter of fact, that does interest me, but you must have something in them pockets as well—”
    “Well, there’s this—”
    There was no question this time: Kid had drawn that gun with lightning speed, when not a second earlier, his hands had been out at his sides. And he didn’t just draw it, he fired it, whether accurately or not was a matter of intention. If his intention had been to kill Vince, then he was far off the mark. But if he’d meant to disarm him, then he had a damn good aim, because his bullet pinged against Vince’s weapon, causing him to yelp and drop it. Aside from a stinging hand, he appeared unhurt.
    But that stinging hand was causing him to cuss and howl a blue streak. His friend was staring at Vince openmouthed and boggle-eyed, which made it quite simple for Kid to saunter over to him and stick the nozzle of his gun in his side.
    A dense fellow, Billybob was—fortunately. If he’d been watching Kid as he should have been, there would likely have been an exchange of gunfire, and Damian could easily have been shot in the barrage, sitting there between them as he was.
    He quickly corrected the sitting part, getting to his feet as soon as his amazement subsided a bit. He still couldn’t quite credit it as he watched Kid take Billybob’s weapon out of his lax hand and pick up the one on the ground. He’d disarmed them both, easily and without bloodshed—and still his face was inscrutable. He looked so indifferent about the whole affair, hecould have just come back from relieving himself in the bushes, rather than relieving two stage robbers of their weapons.
    He tossed one of the guns back toward Damian; the other he stuck in his belt. He was motioning with the one still in his hand as he said, “Sit down and put your hands behind your head. And don’t give me no trouble. Taking you in dead would be easier, not to mention quicker, than taking you in alive. Now I don’t mind harder, but not when I already got excess baggage, so don’t tempt me on the easy route.”
    Damian didn’t hear all of that, at least not about the excess baggage, since Kid had politely lowered his voice before mentioning him. Besides, he was debating whether or not to pick up the weapon that had slid across the ground to end up against his bare foot.
    He was not familiar with handguns. In fact, he’d never had occasion to ever hold one before. In New York, they just weren’t useful or necessary. Rifles, on the other hand, he was quite familiar with, from marksmanship competitions in his college days as well as hunting expeditions in the country with his father.
    He supposed he couldn’t just leave the gun on the ground, though, not with the two men still relatively free to make an effort to retrieve it, but the lad was addressing that point next, saying over his shoulder, “Find something in that bag of yours, Mr. Rutledge, to tie them up with. An old shirt ought to do nicely, after you rip it up some.”
    Damian almost snorted. He didn’t own any old shirts. The very idea—but then he heard Kidadd, “You won’t be taking that bag along with you anyways. No room for it with just one horse.”
    He was glad, then, that he hadn’t snorted. Damian hadn’t considered how they would be getting to a town from here, but obviously the kid had already figured out the inconvenience of two riding on a single horse, and how little room that would leave for extras.
    After rummaging in his bag, Damian came forward with a shirt in one hand, the gun in the other. Kid gave him a long-suffering look, until it finally dawned on Damian that he was to do the ripping and tying himself. Logical, he supposed, since they’d already seen what the boy could