First, McNeil reached out his left hand and grabbed Rhodes' right wrist in a steely grip with the man's gun only half drawn. Then, at the same moment, McNeil raised the Colt in his right hand above his shoulder and slammed the barrel down on Rhodes' head, delivering a vicious blow. It happened so fast that Patrick would say later that he never even saw McNeil’s Colt clear the leather. Rhodes sat down like a pole-axed steer and then rolled over onto his face, unconscious. Instinctively, Patrick palmed his six-shooter but paused, staring at the unblinking eye of the muzzle of McNeil’s Colt. It looked like the open end of a rain barrel. With deliberate slowness, Patrick took his hand away from his gun and lifted both hands to shoulder level.
“You’re smarter than you look, Patrick,” McNeil said, twirling the Colt once before dropping it back in the holster. But he held Rhodes' six-shooter in his left hand.
“I’d been within my rights to kill you both,” McNeil said. To Patrick, the words sounded like the angry cracks of a bullwhip. “But Miss Lamar saved your worthless hides. I didn’t want to get blood all over her clean floor. You must thank her.”
Patrick looked at McNeil, dumbfounded.
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