For all Parker’s lack of size, he had been in a fair fight. Brad was no man to interfere when all things were open and equal, but when Quarles went for Parker with the piece of chair rung, Brad figured there was an end to waiting. Fairness had gone. Quarles’ plain intent was to beat Parker’s brains out. Brad reached for his gun. His voice was quiet but it ‘carried even to the anger-dulled ears of Quarles across the room. “Beat him with your fists or quit,” he said flatly. Quarles swung his head, showing glazed eyes that took a moment to focus on the gun. It scarcely seemed to register, and he turned back toward Parker. “Go to the devil,” he said thickly, and took a step forward. Brad knew he could never make it across the room before the club swung down. He did the next best thing. His shot was harsh in the close confines of the saloon. Ike Quarles bellowed in amazement, staring at his empty, numbed hand. Once more he swung toward Brad. “Just who in hell are you, drifter?”
