So you’re fast and you hate
my guts . . . and now you’re callin’ me . . .
All Taig could do was wait. They said Johnny Cristo was coming to kill him. Had he heard a whisper like that about any other gunslinger in the West, he might have ignored it. Some young hotshot or other was always boasting he would hang the gun master’s scalp off his belt, but somehow they never got around to it — their reluctance had a little to do with common sense and everything to do with survival.
But Cristo was different. If he said he was coming to kill Taig, he sure as hell meant it.
Taig was ready. He always was. Nobody in the gun trade had ever got the jump on Jared Taig. The Boothills of the West were filled with men who’d tried . . .