Bruno did not move. His voice was gravel scraped over bone. "Talking is for men with breath left to waste, Rafael."
Bruno’s eyes flickered. The woman. Elena. She had been his wife. Then she had been Don Rafael’s prize. They said she died of a fever. Bruno knew the fever had a name and a pearl-handled pistol. libro vaquero
He turned his back and walked toward the door. For a moment, Don Rafael’s hand twitched toward his own hidden derringer. Bruno did not move
He was waiting.
Bruno stood up. He took a small, tarnished star from his pocket—the remnants of his old sheriff’s badge, melted and twisted. He placed it on the table. The woman
"The badge," Bruno said softly. "You took my badge and melted it down for a belt buckle. But you forgot something, Rafael."