‘You stay right where you are, now,’ said the Sheriff, in his sing-song voice. Smith looked up, slowly, and didn’t move his arms; he tried to peer up the barrel of the revolver. Did I count five shots, or six?
‘You’re under arrest, mister. Don’t think the rest of your gang’re gonna help you out – I’ve just put bullets in alla them.’
‘Sure, boy.’ He looked up into the young sheriff’s eyes: they were like ice. Not a hint of fear there. If the kid was bluffing he was doing a damn good job of it. Was it five shots, or six?
‘Now, you put your hands up over your head – slowly, now.’
‘And then what? The rope?’ Smith did move his hands, but in the wrong direction. He smiled like the Devil. ‘I think I’ll take my chances.’