“Mister, you ain’t got the brains God gave a prairie dog. Either that or you figure you’ve lived long enough.” When Cole still made no sign of moving, Black Hat nodded toward a wide-shouldered brute of a man. “If you don’t get your sorry ass outta that chair right now, ol’ Skinner there is gonna break your back for you.”
Cole glanced at the grinning half-wit, who appeared eager to do the job, and knew that he had little choice. It was obvious that he was likely to take a licking if he didn’t act quickly and decisively. “That would be a mistake,” he warned, and in one swift move, grabbed for the Henry rifle propped against the chair, cranking a cartridge into the chamber as he brought it up to level on Black Hat. He had no desire to kill anyone, but he had no intention of taking a whipping.
His quick response caught them by surprise, but there was no concern evident in any of the faces staring at him. “Well, ain’t you the feisty one?” Black Hat said. “You fixin’ to have a gunfight against six of us? That don’t seem too smart to me.”
“I expect that’s so,” Cole replied. “But I don’t figure to have a gunfight with all of you, so I’m settin’ my sights on just one. I reckon that will be you, Mr. Bigmouth, and I’m damn sure I’m gonna get you.”