I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of the saddle. "What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton."
"I can't remember," he said. "But it be coming to me. Hold on."
I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behind and the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, "Good enough," to the others who'd come up behind me.
I felt like a fool.
Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground and said in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it was natural and mine wasn't, "The piece be yours." Then he tromped on it until it cracked and fell apart.
Then he said, "Pull a gun on me twice. Twice." He slapped me so hard that my ears rang. "You dirty little punk."
I said calmly, "You big louse."
It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I can remember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of my face and then nothing.
Brains are no good if you don't use them.