TWO
The three sailors came at him, and he could tell from the way they held their knives that’s what they were—sailors, not killers. They’d taken this job for the money, because there were four of them. If not for the man with the gun, McBeth felt he actually would have a fighting chance against them. If he could work his way around to the man with the gun, he wouldn’t even have to take it from him, he’d just have to knock it away.
But at the moment the other three were between him and the gunman, fanned out, holding their knives like sailors, not like knife fighters.
He was going to have to get a knife away from one of them and risk a throw at the gunman.
“All right, then, lads,” he said, “you heard the man—come and get me.”
“Oh, we’ll get ya, all right,” one of them said. “That’s what we’re gettin’ paid ta do.”
“Enough talk,” the man with the gun said. “Just do it so we can get on wit’ our leave.”
If the three men charged him all at once, he wasn’t going to have a chance, whether they were experienced fighters or not. They’d take him down by sheer numbers.
He was good, but in this case, he was as good as dead.
“Hold it!”
Everybody looked toward the voice—McBeth, the man with the gun, and the three amateur knife fighters.
“Wha—” one of the sailors said.
There was a man standing there, his hands clasped in front of him. He was wearing a gun and looking very calm.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“A murder, I think,” McBeth said.
“This ain’t none of your business,” the man with the gun said.
“Well, I was supposed to meet somebody down here on the dock,” the stranger said, “but it looks like they haven’t shown up. So I guess I don’t have any business of my own.” He shrugged. “I might as well get involved in yours.”
“I don’t mind,” McBeth said.
“What have these men got against you, friend?” the stranger asked.
“Nothin’ that I know of,” McBeth said. “They are just bein’ paid to kill me.”
“By whom?”
“A friend of mine.”
The man frowned.
“You got weird friends.”
“Hey!” the gunman said. “Look, boyo, you should be on your way.”
“Wait, I’m getting it,” the stranger said. “You’re all Irish, right? Just got off a boat from Dublin?”
“Galway,” McBeth said. “But for all I know, they might be Dubliners.”
The three men with the knives looked confused. McBeth thought that if the stranger kept the gunman busy, he’d be able to surprise the other three, maybe shove a couple of them into the water before they knew what was happening, leaving him with only one attacker to handle.
“Four against one,” the stranger said. “Those aren’t very fair odds. Why don’t we start with you putting the gun down?”
“What?”
“Put it down,” the man said. “Then you and me, we can watch your boys take on . . . what’s your name?”
“McBeth.”
“We can watch them take on Mr. McBeth,” the man said. “Frankly, I’m willing to bet on him. Your boys don’t look very smart.”
“What?” The gunman was confused as well.
“Put it down.”
The man flexed his fingers around the butt of the gun.
“Don’t get nervous,” the stranger told him. “You fire that thing, even by accident, and I’m going to have to kill you.”
“I-I got my gun in my hand, friend.”
“That doesn’t matter to me . . . friend. You’re in America now. We’re all fast-draw artists. Haven’t you read any of the books?”
“You mean, like Wild Bill Hickok?” McBeth asked.
“Exactly like Wild Bill Hickok.”
McBeth looked at the gunman.
“If I were you, lad, I’d put it down.”
The gunman risked a look at his ship, but there was nobody watching from the deck. He licked his lips while the three men with knives turned to look at him.
“Kill him!” he told them as he turned his gun toward the stranger.