Commander Wing turned to the newcomer. The harsh planes of his face softened as he grinned.
"Yes, Dead-Eye, I guess you bin missing something all right. Making love to Elizabeth again?"
Dead-Eye Lindstrom grinned, his white square teeth glaring through the black of his bearded face.
"Yep, I sure have. Y'know, Cap, Elizabeth's coming along fine now. I jest got through placing five out of six slugs in the bull'e eye, and I warn't even looking. I jest grabbed leather and started fanning the hammer and whamo! Elizabeth put 'em right in thar."
Dead-Eye patted the bulky length of the archaic powder gun strapped to his right leg. Then he jerked his hand up quickly and the white steel of the ancient Frontier .44 revolver sparkled in the light.
"Pard," he said, "Pard, them were the days. You stood face to face with another owlhoot rider and reached. By gosh, you could see the whites of his eyes and whamo! You got him or he got you."
"Shut up, will you, Lindstrom?" Packer snapped. "You and your ancient history give me a pain. They buried the last beef striker—"
"Cowpuncher!" Dead-Eye corrected.
"Three hundred years ago," Packer went on. "And where you ever found that excuse for a pistol, only Neptune knows."