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clearly in awe of these old gunslingers.
    â€œNope,” Silver Jim said. “We stopped off down in Wyoming for supplies. Store clerk said the Sabler boys had come through the day before, heading up thisaway. Ben, Carl, and Delmar.”
    Lujan sighed. “Many, many times I have wished I had never drawn my pistol in anger that first time down in Cuauhtemoc.” He smiled. “Of course, the shooting was over a lovely lady. And of course, she would have nothing to do with me after that.”
    â€œWhat was her name?” Hatfield asked.
    Lujan laughed. “I do not even remember.”
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    The old gunfighters were all well up in years—Charlie Starr being the youngest—but they were all leather-tough and could still work many men half their age into the ground.
    And the news that the Box T had hired the famed gunslingers was soon all over the area. Some of Cord McCorkle’s hired guns thought it was funny, and it would be even funnier to tree one of the old gunnies and see just what he’d do. The gunfighter they happened to pick that morning was the Louisiana Creole, Pistol Le Roux.
    Ol’ Pistol and Bobby were working some strays back toward the east side of the Smith when the three gunhawks spotted Pistol and headed his way. Just to be on the safe side, Pistol wheeled his horse to face the men and slipped the hammer thong off his right hand Colt and waited.
    That one of the men held a coiled rope in his right hand did not escape the old gunfighter. He had him a hunch that these pups were gonna try to rope and drag him. A hard smile touched his face. That had been tried before. Several times. Ain’t been done yet.
    â€œWell, well,” the hired gun said, riding up. “What you reckon we done come across here, boys?”
    â€œDamned if I know,” another said with a nasty grin. “But it shore looks to me like it needs buryin’.”
    â€œYeah,” the third gunny said, sniffing the air. “It’s done died and gone to stinkin’.”
    â€œThat’s probably your dirty drawers you smellin’, punk,” Pistol told him. “Since your mammy ain’t around to change them for you.”
    The man flushed, deep anger touching his face. Tell the truth, he hadn’t changed his union suit in a while.
    â€œI think we’ll just check the brands on them beeves,” they told Pistol.
    â€œYou’ll visit the outhouse if you eat regular, too,” Pistol popped back. “And you probably should, and soon, ’cause you sure full of it.”
    â€œWhy, you godda—” He grabbed for his pistol. The last part of the obscenity was cut off as Pistol’s Colt roared, the slug taking the would-be gunslick in the lower part of his face and driving through the base of his throat.
    Pistol had drawn and fired so fast the other two had not had time to clear leather. Now they found themselves looking down the long barrel of Pistol’s Peacemaker. The dying gunny moaned and tried to talk; the words were unintelligible, due in no small measure to the lower part of his jaw being missing.
    â€œShuck out of them gun belts,” Pistol told them, just as Bobby came galloping up to see what the shooting was all about. “Usin’ your left hands,” Pistol added.
    Gun belts hit the ground.
    â€œDismount,” Pistol told them. “Bobby, git that rope.”
    â€œHey!” one of the gunnies said. “We was just a-funnin’ with you, that’s all.”
    â€œI don’t consider bein’ dragged no fun. And that’s what you was gonna do, right?”
    â€œAw, no!”
    Pistol’s Colt barked and the bootheel was torn loose from the gunny’s left boot. “Wasn’t it, boy?” Pistol yelled.
    On the ground, holding his numbed foot, the gunny nodded his head. “Yeah. We all make mistakes.”
    â€œGit out of them clothes,” Pistol ordered. “Bare-butted nekkid.