He canted his head slightly to one side, muttered orders in Spanish, and the five other rurales hurried up behind him, formed a semicircle around James, Crosseye, Vienna, and the whore still on Crosseye’s knee, and cocked and raised their muskets. Beneath the table, James loosed his right-side .36 in its holster. Then, leaving that hand over the pistol’s wooden grips, he raised the other one chest-high, palm out. “Whoa, there, amigos! I don’t see why we can’t all be friendly.” “Gringo bastardo!” said Toli, standing up close to the colonel and clutching his bandaged hand to his belly. His cheek was swollen and blood-crusted where James had torn it open with the man’s own gun. “You broke my wrist, blackened my eye!” The colonel indicated Toli with a delicate turn of his hand—a curiously gentlemanly gesture in a man with eyes like a rabid wildcat. “Is this true, senor?” James closed his hand more tightly around his Griswold’s grips and smiled. “True enough.
What do You think about The Bells Of El Diablo (2012)?
