Astonishment and stark, naked fear were in Dale's eyes. He shrank back a step, and looked swiftly at Sanderson's right hand, and when he saw that it held a six-shooter he raised both his own hands, shoulder-high, the palms toward Sanderson.
"So you know it means shootin', eh?" said Sanderson grimly as he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, slamming it shut with his left hand.
"Well, shootin' goes." There was the cold calm of decision in his manner; his eyes were ablaze with the accumulated hate and rage that had been aroused over what he had heard. The grin that he showed to Dale drew his lips into two straight, stiff lines.
"I reckon you think you've earned your red shirt, Dale," he said, "for tellin' tales out of school. Well, you'll get it. There's just one thing will save your miserable hide. You got that seven thousand on you?"
Dale hesitated, then nodded.
Sanderson spoke to Mary Bransford without removing his gaze from Dale:
"Get pen, ink, an' paper."
The girl moved quickly into another room, returning almost instantly with the articles requested.
"Sit down an' write what I tell you to," directed Sanderson.
Dale dropped into a chair beside a center-table, took up the pen, poised it over the paper, and looked at Sanderson.