He went over to the bar and called for a drink.

‘Hard night?’ The barkeep was totally bald, the only hair on his head and face the thin mustache spreading across his upper lip like a black caterpillar. ‘Colleen does that to a man.’

Azul nodded and tossed the whiskey down his throat.

It burned, and for a moment he thought his skull might explode, but then it seemed to settle someplace deep inside him and take control so that he could look at the light and move his head without hurting. He poured a second and downed it fast. More than anything, he knew he had to get clear of San Jacinto. Had to get out into the open country, away from saloons and whores and barkeeps.

‘Got the funniest goddam thing going yet,’ said the tender. ‘See him?’

Azul turned his head to follow the pointing finger. And grunted.

At the far end of the bar, where the front windows bled light into the gloomy place, there was a man sketching. Two other men sat across the table from him, heads up and hands proud on holstered hips. The artist was small in comparison, a diminutive man with over-the-shoulders hair and a long, drooping mustache. He was dressed in a gray Eastern-style suit, the vest unbuttoned, and the matching derby set on the table beside his paints.

‘Calls hisself Cal Backenhauser,’ said the barkeep. ‘Says he wants to paint the real West.’

Azul grunted and emptied his glass.

‘I’ll leave him to it. I’m going to find it.’

He slung his saddlebags over his left shoulder and canted the Winchester on his right.

He was almost at the door when the argument broke out.

‘Jesus Christ!’ said the man seated left of the artist. ‘That don’t look a goddam bit like me. Does it?’

He passed the sketch to his companion, who shook his head and said, ‘No. Don’t look like me, either.’

‘Fuck it,’ said the first man. ‘I let some nancy Easterner do my picture, I expect it painted straight.’

‘That’s right, Wesley,’ said the second man. ‘We got a right to see us portraited right.’

‘Fuck it,’ said Wesley. ‘I got me a mind to kill this feller.’

As he said it, he drew a Colt’s Army model and pointed the heavy pistol across the table at Backenhauser. Following his lead, his companion drew a Smith and Wesson American model and cocked the hammer under the artist’s nose.

Azul paused at the door, and for a moment the artist’s eyes met his cold, blue stare.

There was no reason he could define for the next movement. No rational explanation other than sympathy for the man menaced by too many guns. Too many white guns. He allowed instinct to act for him.

His saddlebags dropped smoothly from his shoulder, the same movement snapping the ring of the Winchester down and up, thus shoving the hammer back so that the carbine was poised to fire.

‘You use those pistols,’ he said, ‘and you’re dead.’

Backenhauser collapsed under the table as Wesley and the other man turned to face the half-breed.

‘Why you buttin’ in?’ asked Wesley. ‘Ain’t nuthin’ to do with you. Just me an’ Cole.’

‘All right,’ said Azul. ‘Let him go. You don’t like the way he drew your face; you tear it up.’

‘The hell I will,’ snarled Wesley. ‘Ain’t no one gonna draw me like that an’ live. Nor anyone gonna tell me to ferget it.’

He thumbed the hammer of his Colt as he said it; fast. But not quite fast enough.

Azul triggered the Winchester as he saw Wesley’s finger get white round the knuckle holding the trigger down. And squeezed off on the .44-40 carbine as he shifted the ugly muzzle to point in line with the man’s chest.

The bullet hit dead center of the breastbone, fragmenting a hole that sent a thick spurt of bright lung blood as the protective sheath deflected the slug into Wesley’s right lung. His mouth snapped open as the impact threw him back, off balance, and the Colt blasted a single shot into the floor. He tottered, cannoning into the table so that it overturned as he fought to thumb back the hammer for a second shot. His face was very pale and as he breathed, there was a frothing of scarlet foam around his lips. Slowly, as though wearied by the effort, he let the pistol fall to the floor, then his knees folded and he went down. For a moment he stared at Azul, then his head lowered and he set both hands palms down on the planks. Blood dripped from his jaw and nostrils, the flow getting stronger as he began to cough.

Azul swung the Winchester to cover Cole, but the smaller man had lowered the S&W, shaking his head as he stared at his dying companion.

‘Ease the hammer down,’ rasped the half-breed. ‘Then drop it.’

The gun thudded loud in the silence. ‘God!’ whispered Cole. ‘I never saw anyone shoot so fast.’

He went on staring and shaking his head as Wesley slumped full length over the boards. The sawdust beneath his corpse got sticky and red. Azul grinned, his wide mouth sliding into a humorless line.

‘Maybe he likes that color better,’ he said. ‘You try anything, and you get painted the same way.’

‘Not me,’ gasped Cole. ‘I ain’t tryin’ nuthin’.’

Azul nodded, looking at the artist climbing out from under the spilled table. The front of his shirt was stained with fallen whiskey and he was wiping at his face where some of Wesley’s blood had splattered his mustache.

‘Thanks, mister.’ His voice was far too deep for his small frame. ‘I guess you saved my life. If there’s some way I can pay you back?’

Azul shook his head, surprised to find that it didn’t hurt anymore. ‘Forget it.’

‘I could paint you.’ Backenhauser stooped to collect his fallen materials. ‘I could make you famous.’

‘I just seen what your painting does,’ murmured Azul. ‘I figure I’ll be safer if I don’t get famous.’

He turned away, still holding the Winchester cocked as he picked up his bags and moved towards the door. The aftermath of the night’s drinking must still have been with him to some extent, for he was slow to hear the grunt as Cole went down on his knees to retrieve the S&W, and slow to hear the triple click of the hammer going back.

He was partway through the batwings before the sounds registered, the hinged boards swinging back to strike him with sufficient force that he was pushed off balance even as he turned the Winchester into the saloon.

Flame danced before his eyes, and he let himself drop. Felt flakes of splintered wood strike his face as the bullet pierced the batwings. Then rolled to the side, putting the wall between him and Cole.

Then there was the sound of boots thudding on sawdusted planks.

A scream, pitched up high with agony.

The batwings flew open, and Cole staggered through, the S&W in his right hand, his left bent over his shoulder to clutch at his back. He tottered onto the sidewalk, mouth wide open as his eyes. The gun was forgotten as he sought to draw the slender wooden handle that was protruding from between his shoulder blades clear of his bleeding flesh.

Then Backenhauser exploded through the doors, crashing into the gunman so that Cole was pitched clear of the sidewalk as the artist sprawled on his face.

‘He was gonna shoot you!’ yelled Backenhauser. ‘He’d have shot you in the back if I hadn’t …’

His voice broke off in mid-sentence as Cole came up on his knees with the S&W pointed on his direction.

‘Oh, Jesus!’