Reuben stood lazily, his Navy Colt in one hand, gunpowder smoke still rising several feet above the muzzle. One of the other men moved, and Rebecca heard the distinctive hammer-click of Johannes’ Sharps, which he had raised to his shoulder.
Reuben’s jaw clenched. He grimly cocked the hammer of the Colt. “I don’t push, mister. You got exactly two seconds.”
“You ain’t heard the last of this,” the man said through gritted teeth as his pistol hit the wood with thud.
“I think it is,” said Reuben quietly. “But if it’s not, you know my name.”