They looked down on a small Mexican town where only moments earlier three gunshots had split the midmorning quietness. A man sat bleeding in the middle of the street below, his hand limp on the ground beside him, yet still holding a gun. Guitar and accordion music spilled from the open doors of a cantina. “It’s a mite early for killing or celebrating either one, wouldn’t you say?” the Montana Kid commented. “Depends on who you’re killing and why you’re celebrating,” Burke replied matter-of-factly. “If I was down there, I’d likely be celebrating something myself. Music cordial-izes me something fierce when I’m drunk.” He jiggled a bottle of tequila he held resting atop his saddle horn. He’d opened the bottle at the crack of dawn. He and Montana had been nipping steadily at the fiery liquid since then. Sam looked at the two of them. “You mean it affable-izes you,”
