Holliday hadn’t moved, merely pivoted his arm, and killed them all in less time than it took to inhale.
Ricardo touched the place on his shirt that now had a hole in it, where a little bit of blood had stained the fabric. Then he adjusted his coat to hide the spot. Holliday, replacing his gun in its holster, saw him do this but made no mention of it.
“Hey! Hey, are you all right?”
A stout man with a bushy gray mustache came running up the street. He was the sheriff, a temperance man who never set foot in the saloon, but someone must have gone to get him when trouble broke out. He grabbed Ricardo’s shoulder, as if he expected him to fall over any minute now.
“I’m fine,” Ricardo said. “Thank you.”
“I could have sworn you got hit!”
“Just a bad angle,” Ricardo said. “He missed.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Holliday said.
The sheriff seemed both nervous and thrilled. “I’ve got a dozen witnesses say that man threatened you, Holliday. Not a person here would blame you for this. If I could just get a statement—from both of you—we’ll call this all finished.”
Holliday ha
d clearly done this dance before. “I’m obliged to you, sir.”
They followed the sheriff back to his office.
A couple of hours later, Ricardo offered to buy Holliday a drink. They sat at a table in the corner, and after a round of excited congratulations and well wishes from the onlookers who’d witnessed the fight—and more than a few who wished they had—they were left alone.
Holliday looked exhausted. Usually, he could spend all night dealing cards and nothing more. But that little bit of effort on the street had taken a great deal out of him, and his handkerchief was spotted with blood.
“I thank you again,” Holliday said. “I underestimated those jokers, and you did not.”
“They thought killing you would make them famous.”
“I never did get the boy’s name,” he said, chuckling. The sound turned to coughing, and the handkerchief covered his mouth again.
Ricardo took a deep breath and said, “I could cure you. You would live ageless, forever. There is a price. A difficult one. But you would live.”
Ricardo considered that keeping alive such a man—prone to violence, expert at killing, with an attitude to suit—was perhaps not wise. Giving him the powers that came with his so-called cure was absolutely not wise, not wise at all. But more than either of those things, he thought what a shame it would be to lose him. In three hundred fifty odd years, Ricardo had never made this offer to anyone. Not even those he loved best. He wouldn’t curse anyone he loved.
But this man? This man could survive very well with such a curse.
Holliday also seemed to consider, leaning back, stroking his mustache once. Ricardo couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Holliday’s reddened eyes gazed flatly, his expression didn’t flinch—that famous poker face revealed nothing. He brought his handkerchief to his mouth and coughed, as if to emphasize his own stake in the matter.
When he drew his hand from his face, he was smiling. “I do thank you for the courtesy, sir. But to live forever in this sad world? I do not see that as a blessing.”
Ricardo could be forgiven for feeling relieved.
“No, I expect to die on my feet, boots on. I’m almost looking forward to it. Better, don’t you think?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Ricardo admitted.
“What, boots?”
“Death,” he said. Holliday coughed.
“You’ll be off to Denver soon, then.”
“Yes.” He knew of a couple of bolt-holes he could use along the way. He wasn’t worried. “Tomorrow night. It’s time.”
“I have heard—there are others like you in the city. Most of your kind stay in cities, as I understand.”