Henry quivered from behind the large greasewood bush that had concealed him, and, grinning apologetically, stepped to the side of Morley’s horse and removed a wooden-handled .45 from its holster.
He heaved a sigh of relief as he backed away.
“Now,” he said, “try to come any o’ yer capers on me, Smith and Omar, an’ I’ll get me a club—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mary cut in crisply. “Why not blow their heads off with their own gat?”
“Heh-heh-heh!” chuckled Henry.
“Hit the ground,” Mary commanded. “Keep your hands up and turn your backs to me.”
Leach obeyed instantly, but a look of disdain had come upon Morley’s features as, the first shock over, his courage began welling up again.
“You wouldn’t shoot—”
The remainder of his sentence was drowned by the roar of the Winchester, and the prospector felt the wind of the bullet as it crashed past his cheek. There followed the instant clacking of the mechanism as Mary pumped another cartridge into the chamber. The horses lunged and danced.
“You were saying, Mr. Morley?” Mary prompted sweetly.