Rio Largo

“Twitch? He wears a buckskin jacket, and his mouth is never still.”

“Dead.”

“Creed?”

“Was he the black, or one of the others?”

Hijino had it, then. He finally believed. He did not swear. He did not indulge in insults. Incredibly, all he did was lean back and laugh. “This is wonderful. Most wonderful.”

“You’re the one who is loco,” Jesco said.

“You do not understand, senor. I live for moments like this. For the challenge. There is no challenge in killing old men with pitchforks or women with knitting needles. I did that for amusement.”

“Stand up.”

“Hear me out, senor. Por favor. You see, real challenges have been few. I have yet to meet my equal. They say you are quick, like me, and that delights me, because maybe, just maybe, you will prove them right. Too many times I have met hombres who were supposed to be quick, and they were turtles.”

Jesco suspected the pistolero was stalling. Hijino knew Jesco had walked into the saloon primed to draw. By talking, by dragging it out, Hijino hoped to blunt his mental edge.

“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, senor. 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.