| "Say
Your Prayers, Preacher!" Rafe Bascomb's right hand swooped to his Starr double action Army 44,
and for a fleeting instant he actually believed he would down Preacher because the man in
black hadn't moved.
Preacher had tried to reason with the boy. For reasons of his
own. Preacher wasn't in a killing mood. But talk could only go so far, and
theirs had petered out. As the youth went for his gun, J.D. Preacher's finely honed
instincts took control. His right hand was a literal blur as it streaked to his vest
holster and drew one of his forty-four forties. The boy's gun wasn't anywhere near
being clear of its holster when Preacher's shot boomed in the gold Room.
Rafe Bascomb was struck between his brown eyes, the bullet tearing
through his brain and blowing out the back of his head, hat and all. Blood and flesh
spattered the nearby tables and chairs as Rafe was catapulted from his feet and sent
crashing into a faro bank. |
