Malone took another shot as the Captain made his announcement. The whiskey was cheap, but it was serving its purpose admirably. The navigator just found himself hoping he was still sober enough to shoot straight. He laid his glass aside and studied himself briefly, to be sure he was ready for action.

He was dressed as usual in his faded brown jumpsuit, a pair of scuffed boots on his feet. He was wearing a western-style poncho, of the sort old film heroes used to wear. At his hip rested his revolver and, leaning against the wall nearby his chair, his rail rifle. It was not an impressive arsenal, but Malone had made do with less in the past.

Satisfied with himself, the Irishman surveyed the room about him in passing. It was the lounge of the [i]Washington[/i], a common area where leisure was had. It was rather unassuming, really, though a goodly number of fine times had been had there in good company. Presently his only company consisted of Church, a somewhat disagreeable fellow some years Malone's senior, who nevertheless was an exceedingly competent crewman and moreover an accomplished drinker.

“Probably ought to get into position, eh, Church?” Malone said, slurring softly as he picked up his rifle.

“I reckon servitude ain't gonna abolish itself. Y'sober enough for a shootout?”

With a pretty good idea of exactly how the freedman would answer that question, Malone started out from the lounge into the corridor, moving at a quick trot. His steps were steady enough, though he was fairly certain he had less to drink than his compatriot.