That man could cut all our throats faster than you could pull your six shooter.

Courtesy Vikrum Singh Baraich “And that fellow with the turban, the Arab, he’s a nice sort.”
“Not an Arab, a Sikh.” Allingham spoke into his plate and wondered what effect the meal would have on Hobbs. He was grateful to have his own room.
“Same difference, all wear them turbans.” Francis pushed his plate away. He poured beer for himself and the Irishmen who were just getting ready for their night on patrol.
“No, it’s not.” Allingham looked on at the young lad. Sometimes he wondered at the ignorance of his young deputy. He felt talkative this night. “Could not be any more different.”
“Really? How so, Captain?” Francis did not like to be ignorant or considered a fool. He wanted to learn some things from the captain, from all of them, as they all seemed to know so much more than he. Francis, by his own admission, was a complete bumpkin.
“Sikhs are from India. Arabs are from Arabia. They both wear turbans but that’s where it ends. Sikhs live by the code of the saint-soldier. Always controlling internal vices and constantly immersed in virtues. They are the best of human kind.”
“Well, I’ll be go to hell.” Francis stroked his chin and looked at the Irishmen. Saint-soldiers?”
Allingham looked on as he ate. “That man could cut all our throats faster than you could pull your six shooter.” He stood up and brushed the crumbs from his lap. “So you’d better show the lady all respect.” Allingham