by the force of impact from Sandy's bullet on its muzzle, low down,
near the cylinder. Dazed, he watched it spinning away, his hand numb.

"Back up to that door, you! Back up!" Sandy's voice was almost
conversational but it was profoundly convincing. The bully obeyed him,
standing at the door in the place of the assayer, who stepped aside,
feeling a little sick at the stomach, Sam bracing him in friendly
fashion by one elbow.

"I won't shoot _yore_ knuckles off," said Sandy, "pervidin' you keep
yore fingers wide apaht, an' don't wiggle 'em. Spread 'em out against
the wood, bully man!"

His face whitening from the ebb of blood to his cowardly heart, Roarin'
Russell opened his fingers wide, judging implicit obedience his greatest
safety. Sandy did not move position, he hardly seemed to move wrist or
finger as his guns spat fire, left and right, eight shots blending,
eight bullets smashing their way through the door between the "V's" of
the bully's fingers while the crowd held their breath for the
exhibition.

Sandy quickly reloaded, quickly but without obvious haste. He did not
return the guns to their holsters and he paid no attention to the
admiring comments of the crowd.

"Who is he? Two-gun man! They say his name's Sandy Bourke."

"You-all interfered with a friend of mine," said Sandy. "It ain't a
healthy trick. An' you ain't apologized to the lady. I don't know how
Westlake feels about it, but you've sure got to apologize to the lady."

The assayer, bewildered at Sandy's assumption of friendship, waved his
hand deprecatingly. Russell's eyes rolled from side to side toward his
still elevated hands.

"You can lower 'em if you can't talk with 'em up," said Sandy. "I'm
waitin' fo' that apology, but I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"I didn't see no woman," mumbled the bully, crestfallen.

"I told you there _was_ one," said Sandy. "I don't lie, even to
strangers. You're sorry you swore, ain't you?"

"You're quicker'n I am on the draw with yore two guns," retorted the
goaded Russell. "I c'ud lick you one-handed 'thout guns--or any man in
this crowd," he blustered in an attempt to halt his departing prestige.

"You-all had a gun in yore hand when we stahted in," said Sandy equably.
"You're sorry you swore--_ain't_ you?"

The repeated words, backed by the cold gaze, the ready guns, were
merciless as probes.

"I apologizes to the lady," growled Russell.

"Now, that's fine," said Sandy. "Fine! Westlake, will you com