“I wonder?” he said to May at his elbow.
He had no definite reason for wondering. When cowboys were in Big Sandy revolver shots were a commonplace. The cow-puncher in his exuberance used a six-shooter in much the same spirit a small boy sets off fire-crackers. His Colt was at once a weapon and a toy.
But there was no sound of hilarity, no light-hearted whooping. Neither of the J7 men had been in long enough to get drunk. All the Block S riders were on Little Eagle. There might be stray stock hands in town. Yet Robin was troubled by those shots, that uncommon stillness which followed. It was a scant two hundred yards to the hotel, the Silver Dollar, the other saloons. Not a sound, not a voice, was uplifted in that hush.
“That’s funny. I’m going over.”
“Robin—please!”
“I got to,” he said desperately.
He pressed a kiss on her lips, shook off her clutching hands, and ran. He glanced back once. May stood where he left her looking after him, the raking sun rays striking golden gleams on her head. Through Robin’s mind flashed the thought that it might be his last sight of her. But he went on quickly. If he met Shining Mark and luck was against him at any rate her kiss was sweet on his lips.
The corpulent host of the hotel stood outside his bar-room door.
“What was the shootin’?” Robin asked.
“Somet’ing happen ober dere, yes,” the man said placidly. “Everybody go to see. Vot iss, I do not know, already yet.”