Cassidy set the empty glass down hard enough to crack it and leaned in close—close enough that the old man could smell whiskey on his breath along with the liquor still dripping from his own hat brim. "Nothing to say, old man? Nothing at all?"
"Said enough already," the old man answered. "Just waiting on you to finish deciding what you're going to do about it."
Cassidy's hand dropped for his revolver.
What happened next took less time than the laughter needed to fully die down.
Cassidy's fingers closed around the grip, and the old man's hands closed over his wrist in the same instant, both of them together, turning the muzzle down toward the floor and driving a thumb hard behind the trigger finger until the weapon came free of Cassidy's grip entirely. It slid across the table, spinning once, well beyond either man's easy reach.
Cassidy's other hand moved on pure reflex, reaching for the second revolver he kept tucked at the small of his back—the one most of Deadwood didn't know he carried, the one that had ended more than one dispute before his opponent understood there was a second gun in play at all.
The old man was already moving, catching that wrist before the hidden weapon had cleared its holster, twisting it flat until the gun dropped unfired onto the plank floor between them.
Two guns gone in the space of a single breath.
The room had gone utterly silent. Even the piano player in the corner had let his hands go still on the keys. And Cassidy stood there, staring at his own empty hands as though they belonged to somebody else entirely.