“Well, good-bye then,” he said.
Hollis did not turn. “Good-bye,” he answered.
Potter took one step outward, hesitated, and then again faced the front of the office.
“Damn it, Hollis,” he said hoarsely, “don’t wait for Ten Spot to start anything; when you see him coming in the door bore him. You’ve got a right to; that’s the law in this country. When a man gives you notice to leave town you’ve got a right to shoot him on sight!”
For a moment he stood, awaiting an answer. None came. Potter sighed and stepped out through the door, leaving his chief alone.
At one minute to six Hollis pulled out his watch. He sighed, replaced the time-piece, and leaned back in his chair. A glance out through the window showed him that the street was deserted except for here and there a cow pony drooping over one of the hitching rails and a wagon or two standing in front of a store. The sun was coming slantwise over the roofs; Hollis saw that the strip of shade in front of the Kicker building had grown to wide proportions. He looked at his watch again. It was one minute after six–and still there were no signs of Ten Spot.
A derisive grin appeared on Hollis’s face. Perhaps Ten Spot had reconsidered. He decided that he would wait until ten minutes after six; that would give Ten Spot a decent margin of time for delay.
And then there was a sudden movement and a man stood just inside the office door, a heavy revolver in his right hand, its muzzle menacing Hollis. The man was tall and angular, apparently about thirty years old, with thin, cruel lips and insolent, shifty eyes.
“’Nds up!” he said sharply, swinging the revolver to a threatening poise. “It’s six o’clock, you tenderfoot — — — —!”