New Storm Rising

37. British Standoff

For a long, long, moment, utter silence hung over the dessert. Only the wind whistling between the rocks was audible, carrying clouds of sand along with it.

Then a drip, drip noise sounded as sweat dropped from the trembling Spaniard's temple.

Nobody moved. Mr Ambrose just stood there, his revolver pointing at De Ravera's head, his eyes hard as frozen rocks as he held the head desperado's gaze. Neither of them spoke a word. The outlaw's fingers twitched towards his revolver—then froze as Mr Ambrose's own revolver pressed harder against De Ravera's temple.

"W-what now?" the Spaniard demanded, doing his best to sound defiant and utterly failing. "Do you just plan to estand here in a estandoff se rest of se day? You will not be able to move an inch from sis espot!"

"Once again," Mr Ambrose reiterated calmly, "I disagree."

Then he returned his cool eyes upon the desperados' leader. The message was clear. Your move.

The outlaw narrowed his eyes. "He's right. You don't seriously think you can stand there like that forever, do you?"

The Spaniard grinned.

"Besides," the desperado with the deceptively angelic face continued, "you should know I don't actually care about his life. I only care about his wallet. This won't deter me. If you shoot one of them, I shoot you, and the other one will still pay me for saving his hide."

The grin vanished abruptly.

"Oh, I don't need this to deter you." Not even blinking at the outlaw, Mr Ambrose gestured at the Spaniard. "I just needed to stop you long enough to make you listen."

"Listen?" The outlaw's eyes narrowed. He, too, did not blink once during the deadly staring duel they were engaging in. "You think you can convince me with words?"

"No." Reaching into his pocket with his free hand, Mr Ambrose pulled out his wallet. "I was thinking I could convince you with this. How much?"

This time, the outlaw did blink. "Huh?"

"I know as a colonial your intellect may be somewhat deficient, but you should be able to handle a two-word question. Obviously, these..." He glanced at the two Spaniards. "...individuals paid you for your services. How much?"

The leader's eyes narrowed even further. "Why do you want to know?"

"You have no idea who I am, do you?"

The desperado frowned. "Nah. Why?"

De Ravera paled. Apparently, he had just realized what was going to happen. "Don't listen to him, Creed! Don't listen to a word he say—"

"Because," Mr Rikkard Ambrose interrupted, ignoring the Spaniard completely, and pulling a thick bundle of bank notes from his wallet, "you're about to find out."

***

I had to hand it to Mr Rikkard Ambrose. And by "it", I meant my whole month's salary, because apparently he sure as hell wasn't paying the desperado's bribe all by himself. I didn't even think of protesting. I was far too busy gaping at Mr Rikkard Ambrose conducting a swift and simple business transaction with the men who had hunted and shot at us for the last few hundred miles.

In a blink, money changed hands, and the men were his to command.

"You bastardos corruptos y sucios! You won't get away with sis!"

"I'm not interested in your sister," I informed the Spaniard cheerfully. "I don't swing that way."

"You...puta malhablada! I will have you killed for sis! I will—"