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by Ray Dyson (Author)
Bannon's eyes cut Hatcher like twin daggers as his left wrist bent slightly so that the Greener was pointed directly at Webb Logan. Bannon's right hand hovered near the butt of the Colt riding on his hip, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he were daring any of the three to make a break.
Webb let his right hand slide off the saddle horn, but no farther. He stared at the tall stranger and didn't like what he saw. He wanted the man to blink. He wanted him to shift his focus to Little Red. He wanted some sort of opening.
The little redheaded rider to Hatcher's left was immobile. His face was blank, but his darting eyes showed he desperately wanted no part of this parlay. There was an unshakable calmness about Bannon that unnerved him.
Hatcher saw nothing in Bannon's empty eyes that showed the slightest break, nothing that gave him any hope.
Hatcher had it now. This was indeed the gunman Ben Cass had seen at Yuma and who had taken down a good shooter in Lafe Harris. Now, Deke Hatcher saw exactly what the Virginian had seen in Bannon.
"Thing is," Logan said, "we can take what we want."
"Thing is, Webb starts it, he gets both barrels," Bannon said. "And there's a man in the shack with a rifle and he'll take you, Hatcher, if I don't. The only man who's got a chance is the little redhead there. He'll be runnin' away and I might not shoot him."
