Graham Rowat

The standard price was one stone chip, but he might be able to fool some out-of-town simpletons.

Hell, if he couldn't fool some out-of-town simpletons, what the hell was he doing behind the bar anyway?

Slaughter nodded, then reached into his mossy green pocket and pulled out something small and shiny.

Not black like flint, but the smoky gray of lead.

Jacob's mouth went dry when he realized it was a bullet.

Nobody had guns around here, save the six of the twelve constables.

One of them passed out drunk in his bar.

Slaughter placed the bullet on the table, and its thump sounded like a ton of stone crashing down.

At least to Jacob.

Slaughter's face was affixed in a blank grin, infuriating in its alien stupidity.

Jacob frowned, but couldn't bring himself to glare, not if these strangers were packing bullets.

They would have guns, too, no doubt.

When Jacob looked down as furtively as he could, he could see the handle of a six-shooter on a hidden holster.

Each of the grinning, mustachioed freaks bore two, and plenty of bullets.

Was that Sully or Savage?

The one in red.

Whatever the case, he answered for slaughter.

It reminded Jacob of bees buzzing.

When they flitted and hummed amongst each other, their stripes and sighs were negligible.

They were the swarm, and the swarm was them.