"Maybe. But them guns is mine."
"You're trying to buck the law," said the sheriff.
Brek grinned. "It's a damn fool law that needs so many men to enforce
it. If you was the only one packin' irons, I might be persuaded to
gie 'em to the barkeep here. But as long as everybody is carryin'
full holsters, I reckon I don't want to be out of style. I'd look too
conspicuous."
Still holding his weapon, he buckled on his belt and walked over to
where the sheriff's gun had fallen. Without taking his eyes off of
anyone in the room, he squatted and picked it up.
Then he walked back to the sheriff and shoved the six-gun into the
lawman's holster. "Don't aim to cause no trouble, sheriff. If you and
the rest of these gents will oblige me, I'll ask the barkeep to set us
all up a drink."
There was a moment of silence, then the sheriff grinned.
"Reckon I'll take whiskey," he said.
Brek grinned back and put his weapon in its sheath.
It was almost a mistake. As soon as his hand was well away from the gun
butt, one of the men at the bar snatched at his six-gun and brought it
up to fire.
* * * * *
No ordinary man with ordinary guns could have moved fast enough to
do anything. But Brek was no ordinary man, and his weapons were far
from ordinary; both man and guns were the product of a science far in
advance of the nineteenth century.
Brek's hands blurred, and his weapons seemed to leap from their
holsters as the little robot mechanisms secreted in their butts
responded to the electroneural commands of their owner.
There was a roar of sound as one of the guns spoke.
The gunman's weapon seemed to vanish from his hand. It sailed across
the room, banged against the wall, and dropped to the floor. Brek had
no compunction against killing a man, particularly in self-defense,
but the death of one man might conceivably make radical changes in the
future.
As the echoes of the gunshot died away, the gunman howled with pain.
The shock of Brek's bullet against the gun had sent needles of pain
racing up his arm.
The room was silent. Then the sheriff walked over to the gunman, who
was massaging his aching, numbed fingers, and grabbed him by the shirt
collar.
He said softly, "When I agree to take a drink with a man, I don't take
it lightly when one of my deputies tries to shoot him."
"I figured you wanted to take him after what he had done," the man said
sullenly.
"If I had, I'd of done my own gunslinging." He reached out and yanked
the small metal star off the man's vest. "You ain't a deputy any more.
If I catch you wearin' guns, I'll run you in--or shoot you, whichever's
handiest."
Still holding his injured hand, the man turned and walked out of the
saloon. The sheriff turned around to Brek.
"That was mighty fast and accurate shootin', son. What'd you say your
name was?"
"I didn't say yet," Brek said, reholstering his weapons. "But as a
matter of fact, it's Ed Calhoun. As I said, I don't want to cause no
trouble, but I'm glad to oblige them that comes lookin' for it." He
laid a ten-dollar gold piece on the bar. "Here's an eagle, barkeep.
Let's have them drinks."
One of the other men at the bar looked quizzically at the sheriff.
"Sheriff, maybe you hadn't ought to of done that to Cactus. How's the
boss gonna take it?"
The sheriff looked at him for a moment. Then he looked at the others.
"Let's get one thing straight here. John Sager's an important man
hereabouts, and I don't deny it. He needs good gunslingers to guard his
property, and I'm only too glad to deputize 'em. But, by the Almighty,
if a man don't behave himself, if he ain't to be trusted with a gun,
then he ain't goin' to wear a badge as long as I'm sheriff."
He turned to Brek. "I got to uphold the law, son. I asked you to turn
them guns in and you wouldn't do it. I'm damned if I'm goin' to' try
to take 'em away, so there's only one thing to do." He handed Brek the
star that he had taken from Cactus. "Hold up your right hand," he said.
* * * * *
Half an hour later, Brek found himself sitting at a table, drinking
beer and talking with the sheriff and a man named Chuck. He'd answered
questions about his past with the purely fictitious data that he'd
received from the hypnorobot, but all the time his mind had been on the
man who was "an important man hereabouts"--John Sager.
_Sager. Sagginer._ It could be the same man.
"By the way, Sheriff--who _is_ John Sager?"
"Owns the bank," the sheriff said. "Got property up on Chloride Flats,
too. That's the silver mine district, you know. Bought out a couple of
men who was failin' in business and then put 'em to work managin' their
own stores for him. People around here have a right smart respect for
him."
"Friendly sort of fella, eh?"
"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. He treats people well,
gives money to the church and the school, gives a man a job if he's
down and out, but I wouldn't say he was a likeable man personally."
"He's odd," said Chuck. "A real queer one. Maybe I shouldn't say it
because I work for him, and he's done real proper by me, but--well,
he's a funny one."