Whitey threw the bottle that was close to his left hand and fell fast to his right. He heard the roar of the Mexican’s gun, loud in the confined space of the cantina. He rolled and pushed himself up into a crouch, banging against another table as he did so. His Colt was drawn and clear and the first shot smacked into the center of the Mex’s crotch. There was a scream of pain and two more shots, one upon the other. The one that was Coburn’s took another of the Mexicans high in the chest and sent him staggering back against the white wall, blood pumping through his shirt and staining his gun belt.