“He said he’ll have another drink,” Joel said, his tone calm, but firm, as he stood there with his carbine held casually before him.
“You’re makin’ a helluva mistake, mister,” Ansil Bowers finally spoke up. “I ain’t gotta serve none of you Rebel trash.”
“You’re gonna serve this one,” Joel told him, “and the sooner you get on with it, the sooner we’ll be gone.”
Emboldened by Lige Tolbert’s presence, Bowers replied, “The hell I will.” In the next instant, he suddenly jerked backward, startled by the sharp crack of the carbine and the crash of broken glass as the lamp behind the bar was shattered. It was followed at once by the sound of another cartridge inserted in the chamber, and a moment later, by the gasps of the startled bystanders.
Joel motioned with the Spencer and said, “Pour him his drink, and be quick about it. I’m losin’ my patience.”