He grinned some more. “Don’t start anything smart,” he said. “I’m as fast with a rod as you are—faster.”
I laughed at him. “You’ve kept it quiet then,” I said.
A tiny spark of rage burnt in his pig eyes. “Whatja mean?” he demanded, leaning forward.
“Bat Thompson doesn’t mean anything to me,” I said. But Chester Cain means plenty to you. Work it out for yourself.”
“Yeah?” he said, his face a dusty red. “Listen, I could take you any time with a rod, see?” That’s what you say.”
“Watch, punk,” he said, getting to his feet.
He crouched. There was a blur of white as his hand moved; a .38 sprang into sight. It was a fast, smooth draw. It surprised me.
“How’s that?” he asked, twiddling the gun around on his thick finger.
“Do that standing in front of me when I’m heeled, and you’d be a dead pigeon,” I said.
“You’re a liar,” he said, putting the gun away, but there was a look of doubt in his eyes.