“If I don’t see some money goin’ into that hat right now, I’m goin’ to start cuttin’!”
Slowly and deliberately, Duff drew his pistol and pointed it up toward the man who was holding the knife.
“Mr. Camden,” Duff called. He voice was neither loud nor nervous. On the contrary, it was as calm as if he were inquiring about the time. “I’ll be for asking you now to let the woman go,” he said. Though his voice was quiet, it was possessed of a deep resonance that made it easily heard and understood. Somehow, the others in the room sensed the danger in this man.
“What’s the matter with you?” Camden asked. “Are you crazy, Mister? Ain’t you got eyes? Can’t you see that I am holding a knife to this woman’s throat?”
“Aye, I can see that. But if you will lower your knife and let her go, I’ll let you live,” Duff said as calmly as before. “If you do not lower your knife, I am afraid I shall be forced to kill you.”
“You’re goin’ to shoot me from down there? Hell, if you was to try, you’d more’n likely hit the woman.” Camden chuckled, an evil-sounding cackle. “Truth is, they ain’t nothin’ none of you can do.”
“I’ll not be for asking you again.”
“No? Well, that’s good. Now, put down the pistol or I’ll ...”
Nobody had any idea what the rest of Camden’s sentence would have been, because that was as far as he got. Duff squeezed the trigger right in the middle of the man’s bluff and bluster.
The pistol roared in Duff’s hand, and the woman screamed as blood spewed onto her face.
“You son of a bitch! What did you do that for? You shot her!” someone shouted angrily.
“No, I did not hit her,” Duff answered calmly. He slipped his smoking revolver back into his holster. It was only now that the others noticed that the man who had been holding the knife was no longer behind the girl, but was lying on his back.
“Look at that! Camden’s lyin’ on his back!”
“Polly! Are you all right?” the bartender shouted.
“I ...” Polly started. She felt around on herself, then, realizing she was unharmed, let out a little cry of relief. “Yes, I’m fine!” She ran her hand across her face, then pulled it down and looked at the blood on it. “Ohh,” she said. “His blood! I’ve got his blood on me! I’ve got to get it off, I’ve got to get it off!”
Turning, she ran back down the hall of the upper balcony so that she could no longer be seen by those below. Several of the saloon customers hurried up the steps then to examine the man who had been holding the knife. Duff didn’t watch them. Instead, he turned back to the bar and continued to drink his beer. One of those who had gone upstairs stepped over to the railing to call down to the others.
“He’s dead! He’s shot clean through his right eye!”
“Damn! How long of a shot was that?” someone asked. Immediately, the saloon was a bedlam with everyone talking at once. Ironically, there were as many condemning Duff as there were those congratulating him.
“Mister, that was a hell of a chance you took with Polly’s life,” someone said. “Don’t you know you could have hit her?”
“Yeah, did you even give it a second thought before you fired?” another asked.
“No, I dinnae need a second thought,” Duff said. “If I dinnae think I could hit him without hitting her, I would not have fired.”
“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that standing here, shooting up like you done, with a target no bigger’n a man’s hand and it bein’ better ’n a hundred feet away, that you knew you would hit him, and not her?”
“Aye.”
“Mister, you are lying. You took a dumb chance, and you know it.”
Duff’s eyes narrowed. “I do not think I like it being said that Duff Tavish MacCallister tells lies.”
“Duff MacCallister?” One of the others said. “Wait a minute. Are you Duff MacCallister?”
“Aye.”
“Conley, if I was you, I wouldn’t be calling Mr.
Oliver Pötzsch, Lee Chadeayne