TwelveTwo men stood at the far end of the street. Both held shotguns. They were silent, feet planted firmly apart, eyes staring ahead. To their right, kneeling in a shop doorway was another man with a handgun, and over to the left, on the roof of a merchant's store, a fourth man trained a muzzle-loading rifle on Mason, who was moving down the street as if out for a Sunday afternoon stroll. None of the men made to fire their weapons. How could they, for to attempt such a thing would be foolish indeed. Mason had Pilcher by the neck, using him as a shield. And Mason was grinning.
He stopped about ten paces or so from the two blocking the street, pulled in a breath, and prodded Pilcher in the temple with the barrel of his own revolver. “Tell you what, boys, you step aside, let me help myself
