"Aw, go to hell!"
The sinewy hand moved again toward the aching muscles of the gunman.
Collins changed his mind hurriedly.
"All right. I'll come," he growled.
Clay tossed a dollar down on the counter, took a .32, and aimed at the row of ducks sailing across the gallery pool. Each duck went down as it appeared. He picked up a second rifle and knocked over seven or eight mice as they scampered across the target screen. With a third gun he snuffed the flaming eye from the right to the left side of the face that grinned at him, then with another shot sent it back again. He smashed a few clay pipes by way of variety. To finish off with he scored six center shots in a target and rang a bell each time. Not one single bullet had failed to reach its mark.
The New York gunman had never seen such speed and accuracy. He was impressed in spite of the insolent sneer that still curled his lip.
"Got a six-shooter—a fohty-five?" asked Clay of the owner of the gallery.
"No."
"Sorry. I'm not much with a rifle, but I'm a good average shot with a six-gun. I kinda take to it natural."
They turned and walked back to the cab. Collins fell into the Bowery strut.
"Tryin' to throw a scare into me," he argued feebly.