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between his fingers, a twinkle in his eyes. “Depends on the lawman. Some're lazy, others like the glory, a few're in it fer the money, and some're even outlaws theirselves. If yer worried about ‘em a-lookin’ fer you, it depends what you did. If it's real bad, they might even send the Fourth Cavalry after you.” The old stablemaster shook his head. “You don't ever want to git on the fightin’ side of the Fourth Cavalry, boy. What're you wanted fer, if'n you don't mind me a-askin’.”
    Duane leaned closer, and uttered: “I killed a federal marshal, but it wasn't my fault.”
    Suddenly the table exploded in his face, and he went flying backwards. He landed on his back, went for his gun, and heard a voice say, “Don't move.”
    Duane's hand froze. He looked up and saw the bully in the brown cowboy hat with the three owl-hoots who'd stolen his previous table. Duaneblanched white, but held himself steady, tried to smile, and said, “What's wrong?”
    Jones stepped forward and looked down contemptuously. “Are you the feller what says you shot Otis Puckett?
    â€œWho's Otis Puckett?”
    â€œAre you gittin’ smart with me, boy?”
    â€œNot me, sir.”
    â€œI ain't no goddamned sir. I hear that you claim to be the Pecos Kid.”
    â€œYou heard wrong.”
    â€œAre you talkin’ back to me Craddock, or Braddock, or Shmaddock, or whatever yer damn name is?”
    Duane realized that nothing would pacify the owlhoot. The Pecos Kid was being challenged again, and the only thing to do was make a stand. “I ain't a boy.”
    â€œWell, you sure as hell ain't a man either.”
    â€œYou can say anything you want, since you've got a gun in your hand while my hand is empty. But give me a fair chance, and I'll show you who's a boy and who's a man.”
    Jones was surprised by the back talk. His law was the code of the gutter and he preferred to prey on the weak and defenseless. But a Baltimore guttersnipe can't back down publicly. “Are you saying that you want a little duel?” he inquired with a wry grin.
    â€œUnless you intend to shoot me in cold blood, without a chance!”
    â€œHe's right,” said the old stablemaster of theplains, who stood a few feet away. “You got to give ‘im a play. Ain't fair to shoot a man in cold blood like that.”
    If Jones had been alone, he would've blasted the young man to smithereens, but he had to show outlaw valor before his peers. “All right,” he replied. He holstered his gun, then beckoned to Duane. “I ain't killed nobody yet tonight, and it might as well be you. Let's go. On yer goddamned feet!”
    Duane raised himself from the floor. He didn't have time to speculate on what Saint Ambrose would say about moral implications, as he faced Jones and unlimbered the fingers of his right hand. “Mister, I don't know you, and I don't want to kill you. As far as I know, you don't know me. Why don't you let me buy you a drink?”
    Jones raised his eyebrows, because he thought Duane had shown the coward's stripe. “A few moments ago, you was a-challengin’ me to a gun-fight. Change yer mind so fast, Mister Pecos?”
    â€œThere's nothin’ to fight over,” Duane replied. “What's wrong with you?”
    It sounded like a new insult to the ex-Baltimore street urchin. Jones stiffened, and poised his hand above his Remington. “I'm ready when you are.”
    Duane didn't want to draw first, because of possible legal ramifications. His sharp Apache-trained eyes watched his opponent's hand closely. “Mister,” he said, “I'm going to tell you something, and you'd better listen closely. It's true. I shot Otis Puckett. My name's Duane Braddock, and you don't have aprayer against me. But I don't want to kill you. Why don't we forget the whole thing?”
    Jones scowled, becoming more unsure of himself, but the slime of the Baltimore