LASSITER SAW SANLEE’S MAN CROSS THE STREET, AND WENT TO HIM . . .

Lassiter said, “I want my gun.”

“Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he snarled. He started to step away, but Lassiter blocked him.

“You took my gun. I want it.”

Drinkers had come out of the saloon to stare at them.

“You’re crazy as hell,” the man blustered. “I never took no gun.”

Lassiter’s eyes finally lowered to the man’s holster. He saw a familiar gun butt with black grips protruding from the leather.

“It’s a good gun,” Lassiter went on. “You must think it is too. You’re wearing it.”

The man looked at him for a moment, then his thick lips stretched tight in a grin. “Try an’ take it . . .”

That was as far as he got. The .45 Lassiter borrowed appeared in his hand, the hammer eared back. The man came to his toes, a look of surprise on the brutal face.

“Don’t bother to hand it over,” Lassiter said softly. “I’ll just take it. . . .”