“Not in my town.”

Patience wasn’t Jake’s long suit, but he wasn’t in the mood to waste time on a gunman looking to sharpen his reputation. “You want to die over a piece of meat?”

Jake watched the grin spread over Barlow’s face.

He didn’t think he was going to die, Jake thought wearily.

His kind never did.

“Why don’t you come find me in about five years?” Jake told him. “I’ll be happy to put a bullet in you.”

“I found you now. After I kill you, there won’t be a man west of the Mississippi who won’t know Slim Barlow.”

For some-for many-no other reason was needed to draw and fire. “Make it easy on both of us.” Jake started for the doors again. “Just tell them you killed me.”

“I hear your mother was a squaw.” Barlow grinned when Jake stopped and turned again. “Guess that’s where you got that streak of yellow.”

Jake was used to rage. It could fill a man from stomach to brain and take over. When he felt it rising up, he clamped down on it. If he was going to fight-and it seemed inevitable-he preferred to fight cold.

“My grandmother was Apache.”

Barlow grinned again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand. “That makes you a stinking breed, don’t it? A stinking yellow breed. We don’t want no Indians around here. Guess I’ll have to clean up the town a little.”

He went for his gun. Jake saw the move, not in Barlow’s hands but in his eyes. Cold and fast and without regret, Jake drew his own. There were those who saw him who said it was like lightning and thunder. There was a flash of steel, then the roar of the bullet. He hardly moved from where he stood, shooting from the hip, trusting instinct and experience. In a smooth, almost careless movement, he replaced his gun. Tom they-call-me-Slim Barlow was sprawled on the barroom floor.