Shocked faces along the bar turned toward him, and hands moved toward loaded guns.
"I meant pictures," Baker said hastily. "I wouldn't give one of my pictures of Hoot Gibson for two each of Ken Maynard and Tim McCoy."
"Everybody to his own taste," Gibson said agreeably.
Baker exhaled and gulped his drink. It had been a close one.
But as time wore on, the habits of the West-loving aliens grated more and more on Baker's soul. He was particularly irritated by the weekly ritual every male had of riding into the sunset. Since there were two sunsets in opposite directions, it was a long and involved and thoroughly annoying process.
Tom Wayne had kept Baker waiting an hour at the Golden Slipper to discuss his loan. Baker was exasperated and dry. Local custom regarded it as friendly to not begin your drinking before your companion arrived.
Gibson laid out the ingredients of the martini on the bar. "You going to wait any longer for Tom to finish riding into the sunset before I start mixing?"
Baker whirled angrily. "Nuts to Tom! Mix!"
Before the blasphemous words died on his lips, Baker saw death in the rising barrels of the vengeful six-shooters.
VI