"I—I—"
"You thrun me outa here a couple times, remember?"
"Y-yes ... but I—"
"Look at this!" Buck said—and his gun was in his hand, and he didn't seem to have moved at all, not an inch. I was looking right at him when he did it—his hand was on the bar, resting beside his shotglass, and then suddenly his gun was in it and pointing right at old Menner's belly.
"You know," Buck said, grinning at how Menner's fear was crawling all over his face, "I can put a bullet right where I want to. Wanta see me do it?"
His gun crashed, and flame leaped across the bar, and the mirror behind the bar had a spiderweb of cracks radiating from a round black hole.
Menner stood there, blood leaking down his neck from a split earlobe.
Buck's gun went off again, and the other earlobe was a red tatter.
And Buck's gun was back in its holster with the same speed it had come out—I just couldn't see his hand move.
"That's enough for now," he told Menner. "This is right good likker, and I guess I got to have somebody around to push it across the bar for me, and you're as good as anybody to do jackass jobs like that."