“Son,” said Bill, “don’t point that there thing at me. Put ’er on th’ table. I wanta talk to ye a bit.”
“Talk den, an’ make ’er snappy! Wot d’youse want o’ me?”
“Lay th’ smoke-iron on th’ table, son,” Bill ordered again. “What’s th’ use o’ yer flourishin’ ’er? Ye wouldn’t dast shoot California Bill. They’d hang ye, come mornin’. Be nice now—an’ sensible.”
All the time that he was speaking California Bill had been walking deliberately toward the gambler. His hands, hanging at his sides, held no gun. Winnie the Weeper shrank away from him as he neared her, backed to the bed, and sat down weakly, her trembling legs unable to hold her any longer. The slate-gray eyes of the old freighter were fixed on the pale-blue eyes of Felix Wolfgang, and in them was no unkindly light. But they held a fixity, an unwavering, fearless, purposeful look that kept the gambler in a statuesque attitude, undecided, deep down in his heart afraid and hopeless. Slim had fought many battles, with weapons and without, but always with tramps or gangsters who feared him because of his cunning and his deadly methods. Never before had an enemy walked straight up to him, unarmed, and completely ignoring the menace of his gun. It was new to Slim, and the cold fear gripped him that, even if he should shoot, this calm, unconcerned old Westerner would in the end come out the winner. And Slim had much at stake. He did not know that those hypnotic slate eyes of California Bill had brought many a braver man than he was to surrender—that Bill was a fatalist, and had faced many a threatening gun as he now faced this one, convinced that when his time came to die he would simply die, and that would be the end of it.
“Wu-wot d’youse want, I’m astin’ youse?” Slim quavered, as Bill stood within arm’s-length of him; and he was surprised at the break in his voice and its lack of plug-ugly huskiness.
“Why, that there gun, first,” replied California Bill; and before Slim knew what had taken place the revolver had been twisted from his hand and dropped into the freighter’s pocket—but Slim’s wrist still ached.
“There—now that’s a heap better,” Bill said soothingly. “Now le’s set on th’ bed—you an’ me an’ yer muchacha—an’ ye’re gonta tell me all about why ye’re here, an’ what ye got ag’in my friend, Cole of Spyglass Mountain.”
“I—”
“Will,” complacently finished Bill, and his powerful fingers suddenly grasped Slim’s already aching wrist.
Those stubby digits, thick as corncobs, closed down slowly like a vise closing on a piece of wood.