The gunman's weapon seemed to vanish from his hand. It sailed across the room, banged against the wall, and dropped to the floor. Brek had no compunction against killing a man, particularly in self-defense, but the death of one man might conceivably make radical changes in the future.
As the echoes of the gunshot died away, the gunman howled with pain. The shock of Brek's bullet against the gun had sent needles of pain racing up his arm.
The room was silent. Then the sheriff walked over to the gunman, who was massaging his aching, numbed fingers, and grabbed him by the shirt collar.
He said softly, "When I agree to take a drink with a man, I don't take it lightly when one of my deputies tries to shoot him."
"I figured you wanted to take him after what he had done," the man said sullenly.
"If I had, I'd of done my own gunslinging." He reached out and yanked the small metal star off the man's vest. "You ain't a deputy any more. If I catch you wearin' guns, I'll run you in—or shoot you, whichever's handiest."
Still holding his injured hand, the man turned and walked out of the saloon. The sheriff turned around to Brek.
"That was mighty fast and accurate shootin', son. What'd you say your name was?"
"I didn't say yet," Brek said, reholstering his weapons. "But as a matter of fact, it's Ed Calhoun. As I said, I don't want to cause no trouble, but I'm glad to oblige them that comes lookin' for it." He laid a ten-dollar gold piece on the bar. "Here's an eagle, barkeep. Let's have them drinks."
One of the other men at the bar looked quizzically at the sheriff. "Sheriff, maybe you hadn't ought to of done that to Cactus. How's the boss gonna take it?"