It was deadly truth, and Bill knew it. One twitch of the fingers, and he would be a riddled corpse. But he was brave enough. With his long-sought quarry at last before him, he did not shrink from the cold muzzles as he once had from the hammerless gun in Marion’s hands, up the road.
“Ya got one chanst,” he growled. “Put that gun down and wait while we sweat this guy. If he comes acrost ya’ll be free. If ya shoot I’ll git ya before I hit the floor.”
“And so will I,” Ward coolly added. “Show some sense! We’re givin’ you a square deal. Now if you’re guilty as charged, try makin’ your getaway. If you ain’t, stick around. This guy here is goin’ to talk.”
Marion also, who had been tensely watching the pair, turned on the gaunt fugitive.
“Steve, you heard what he said,” she challenged, looking him straight in the eyes. “If you shoot or run it’ll show you did burn out the Bumps! I want to know my own self whether you did or not. You better stay here.”
Through a silent pause Steve stood slit-eyed, studying his foes: the men who had hounded him so long, and the one who had caused that hounding. Snake was reviving. He was staring blankly upward. On him the hunted youth’s gaze fixed. Slowly he let his weapon sink.
“Ye keep often me,” he warned. “I ain’t a-runnin’. But I’m a-keepin’ my gun. I’m a-stayin’ right where I be. Don’t ye come nigh me!”
“That’s good enough,” consented Ward, after a shrewd look. “You stay right there. Now everybody shut up. I want to talk to this guy Sanders.”
In an undertone, however, he said to Douglas: “Kid looks sick and off his nut. Is he?”
“Sick, yes. Lungs. May be pneumonia,” was the muttered reply. Ward frowned. Then he snapped at Snake.