Jebkin pursed his lips in a manner that gave the impression he’d ingested something foul. “Will you state your name for the record, sir?”
“You already know my name. I was in your office last week.”
Mr. Jebkin raised his eyebrows. “I still need you to state your full name for the record.”
“Most folks back home call me Brandt. So, I reckon Brandt will do you fine.”
Jack suppressed a smile, knowing Brandt deliberately played the fool to irk the snobbish solicitor and inject a false sense of security and superiority in their opponent.
“I mean, I wish you to state your full name for the record. As it is stated on your birth certificate.”
“Well—” Brandt hooked his thumbs into his trousers—“sometimes, when I made her hoppin’ mad, my grandma used to holler, ‘Owen Grant Jedediah Brandt, now you stop that and git over here before I tan yer hide!’” He shrugged. “So, I reckon that’s my birthed name.”
“Mr. Owen Grant Jedediah Brandt,” Jebkin muttered as he scribbled the name in his notebook. “Second to Mr. Jack Bastin?” Jebkin looked questioningly at Jack.
“That’s it,” Jack said. “My uncle assigned the name to me. He wanted something commonplace—something forgettable.” He fixed his eyes on Sir Richard’s stony face.
“Right,” Jebkin said, looking up at Sir Richard’s second. “Would you be so kind as to state your full name for the record, sir?”
The second, a sharped-faced gentleman sporting silver mutton chops, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin as though answering a military command. “Robert Edmund Chelmsford, retired Lieutenant General of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jebkin gave the man a servile nod before logging his name into his notebook. “Now, gentlemen, may we see your weapons, please?”
Mr. Chelmsford produced a silver box, which he opened to display a brass pistol encased in red velvet.
“Excellent.” Jebkin nodded. “A fine piece of weaponry.”
“It served me well during two wars and will serve me well today. Mark my words.” Sir Richard glared at Jack.
“I am certain it shall, Sir Richard.” Jebkin bowed as though he was in the presence of the queen. He turned to Jack. “Mr. Bastin, your weapon, if you please.”
Jack put his hands on his hips, opening his coat wide enough to reveal the two six-shooters resting in their holsters on either side of his belt.
Jebkin paled. He glanced at Sir Richard, who narrowed his eyes into two furious slits.
“This isn’t the Wild West, sir. Only one pistol per man is permitted.”
“Fair enough.” Jack snatched the revolver from his left holster, twirled it on his trigger finger, and handed it to Brandt.
Jebkin’s large Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you will turn and walk fifteen paces. Once you are in place, you must wait for my command. Then, and only then, may you fire a single shot each. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Jack said, flinging off his coat and tossing it to Brandt.
“Not so fast.” Jebkin eyed Jack nervously. “You must walk first, and I haven’t started counting yet.”
“Well, what are you waitin’ for?” Brandt said. “We ain’t got all day. Get this showdown started.”
Jebkin lifted his chin and cleared his throat. “You may turn and begin your march.”
Jack spun around and marched the fifteen paces as Jebkin counted them. He stopped on command then turned to face his uncle.
Sir Richard angled his body sideways and lifted his pistol.
Jack kept his forward-facing stance and stood with his legs slightly parted. His hand rested next to his holster, and his fingers danced as if they itched to draw the gun.
“Ready?” Jebkin called.
Both men nodded.
