Drake glanced at him, drew smoke from his cigarette into his lungs, but didn’t say a word.
“You got off your shots mighty fast. You could’ve put one into me, even before I kicked the gun outta your hands.”
Drake merely shrugged.
“So why didn’t you?” Kirk wanted to know. “You knew you had the drop. You could have been well away before that deputy arrived.”
“Might’ve held the gun on you,” Drake admitted after a spell, “but I wouldn’t have shot you cold like that. Oh, if I’d throwed down on you and you were loco enough to keep on comin’, I’d have winged you, make no mistake, but not killed you cold that way.”
“That’s what bothers me,” Kirk said. “All the stories I’ve ever heard about Kiowa Drake tagged you as a cold-blooded killer. Someone’s only got to tread on your toes in a crush around a bar and you gun ’em down. Someone asks an innocent question about your name and the same thing’s likely to happen.” Kirk shook his head. “Don’t sound like the Kiowa Drake who’s sittin’ beside me now.”
Drake blew smoke toward the car’s ceiling, and said, “Must be gettin’ old, is all.”