TRAPPED!
Ike Stroud's right arm was suspended in a bandanna sling, his holstered gun riding the hip beneath the splints.
Facing him were Blond Howlett and his five hired killers.
He didn't have a chance.
Even to try to work a crossarm draw left-handed against that crew was suicide.
"All right, Jid," said Howlett, "take him."
The killer reached for his gun but, incredibly, the weapon didn't even clear leather before a shot rang out.
Jid lurched, folded at the knees and fell.
"My God," said the marshal, "a southpaw!"
Stroud stood calmly, ready to shoot again.
"Come on, Howlett," he urged.
"You've got a man for every slug left in this cylinder."