Ben takes the opportunity to draw, spotting the barman duck behind the counter in the corner of his eye.

"You shoulda let us walk out."

He fires -- once, twice, three times -- and three men fall; there's a sharp, hot burn below his ribs, but he knows the gash beneath his vest and shirt is more shallow than deep.

"You'd best get goin'," he says to the bull of a man in the serape, Hand of God trained on the man's stomach. "Unless you wanna join these fellas."