"Hands up!" Mr. Braden commanded in a voice which shook badly.
The three men sprang erect. Mr. Braden recognized Gavin, Gerald and Larry French. They had made no attempt to conceal their faces. They blinked, frowning in the sudden light.
"You infernal scoundrels!" cried Mr. Braden. "Put up your hands! Put them up I tell you. If you make a move I'll shoot."
Mr. Braden's mistake was in reiteration. Etiquette and common sense alike demand that instant obedience to a gun be enforced by the gun itself. In this case the muzzle of the gun wavered and wobbled badly.
"Put that gas-pipe down!" Gavin said contemptuously.
"Put up your hands!" Mr. Braden repeated. "I'll shoot, I tell you. I will! I—"
Quite by accident, in response to unintentional pressure of an unsteady finger, the ten-gauge roared and the shot charge, almost solid at that short range, passing between Gavin and Gerald struck and spattered against the steel wall of the safe. Instantly, Gerald jerked a six-shooter from its holster and fired and fired twice.
Mr. Braden's face assumed an expression of dumb wonder. The shotgun sagged, exploded again, and the charge ripped the floor. He sank downward, pitched forward, and lay still.
"Hell's fire!" cried Gavin. "What did you do that for?"
"What for?" Gerald returned. "Because I don't want to be shot, myself."