“Leave be, Harry. I’m asking you nice. Leave be.”
“The hell with you, asshole.”
He picked up the .32 in his left hand.
Longarm took careful aim. And shot him high in the forehead, his bullet neatly centered between Harry Bolt’s eyes and slightly above them.
“My God,” Cletus Terry said, turning away and vomiting in the blood and brains already on the floor there.
“Yeah,” Longarm mumbled. “There ain’t no other chance for mercy, is there?”
He looked quickly toward the men at the bar. But no one there seemed interested in joining the fuss.
He drew smoke from his cheroot deep into his lungs and slowly exhaled, then pulled the railroad-quality Ingersoll out of his watch pocket and checked the time. There was no hurry. Not now. He had plenty of time to make the four-twelve northbound. He wouldn’t have to wait for the late train after all.