by Ralph Cotton
But before Boland could pull the trigger, he and the other two froze at the sound of a shotgun cocking behind them. ‘‘Drop your guns, hombres,’’ a voice said with urgent determination.
Without turning or dropping his gun, Boland said over his shoulder, ‘‘Oh? And just who is making this request?’’
‘‘It is no request. It is an order,’’ the voice said. ‘‘I am Gerardo Luna, constable of Matamoros. But it will not matter to you who I am if you do not do as I say.’’
‘‘Gerardo Luna? The one all the local vaqueros and rounders call Moon?’’ Recognizing the name, Boland lowered his gun and let his aim move away from Shaw’s head.
‘‘Señor Moon to you,’’ said the Mexican lawman, stepping forward, in between Tomes and McClinton, nudging first one, then the other with his shotgun barrel. Their guns fell to the dirt.
‘‘With all respect, Señor Moon,’’ Boland said, holding out, stalling, his gun still in hand, ‘‘but you’re meddling in a fair fight. He drew first.’’
‘‘His gun is still holstered,’’ said Luna with an accent. ‘‘He is drunk. He passed out and fell. I saw it on my way here. Lucky for you I was not in range or mi pequeño ángel here would have shot you into the sky. Now you drop it, or I drop you.’’
Boland sighed. He uncocked his Colt and slowly let it fall to the dirt. He relaxed a little and looked at the shotgun in Luna’s hands. ‘‘Your little angel, eh?’’
"Sí, my little angel,’’ Luna repeated. He gestured down at the ornate eight-gauge shotgun with its brass-trimmed fluted barrel and its tall hammers drawn back.
‘‘Well, ain’t that just sweet as can be,’’ Boland said stiffly. ‘‘Maybe we’ll meet someday while your little angel ain’t handy, and we’ll reflect back on this thing from a whole other outlook. You just might find that I’m a man you do not want to anger.’’
Almost before the words left his mouth, Tomes and McClinton winced at the sound of the shotgun butt snapping up into his chin. Blood and broken teeth spilled from his lips as he fell to the ground beside Shaw.
‘‘Whoa!’’ Tomes said instinctively, ‘‘You had no cause to bust the man up that way.’’
‘‘Oh, you think not?’’ Luna took a step toward him.
Tomes and McClinton both backed away. Tomes raised a hand in a show of peace and said quickly, ‘‘Although I can certainly understand how you might have thought it was justified. . . . Titus has a way of getting testy if he goes unchecked.’’
‘‘Which, in all honesty, he is prone to do from time to time,’’ McClinton joined in, also raising his hands chest-high in submission.
‘‘I see,’’ said Luna, the short shotgun still clenched in his fists. ‘‘I am happy that you both agree with my decision.’’ He jerked a nod toward the knocked-out gunman and said, ‘‘Now get him up and out of here. It looks bad, hombres lying in the middle of my street.’’
