Still holding his weapon, he buckled on his belt and walked over to where the sheriff's gun had fallen. Without taking his eyes off of anyone in the room, he squatted and picked it up.
Then he walked back to the sheriff and shoved the six-gun into the lawman's holster. "Don't aim to cause no trouble, sheriff. If you and the rest of these gents will oblige me, I'll ask the barkeep to set us all up a drink."
There was a moment of silence, then the sheriff grinned.
"Reckon I'll take whiskey," he said.
Brek grinned back and put his weapon in its sheath.
It was almost a mistake. As soon as his hand was well away from the gun butt, one of the men at the bar snatched at his six-gun and brought it up to fire.
No ordinary man with ordinary guns could have moved fast enough to do anything. But Brek was no ordinary man, and his weapons were far from ordinary; both man and guns were the product of a science far in advance of the nineteenth century.
Brek's hands blurred, and his weapons seemed to leap from their holsters as the little robot mechanisms secreted in their butts responded to the electroneural commands of their owner.
There was a roar of sound as one of the guns spoke.