"If pore Squint was only here," burbled Smitty, eyeing the bottles. "Pore Squint. We'll bring that coyote in for you, Dave. We'll drag him to town."
"Him an' Ol' Arnold," supplemented Carson. "Both of 'em!"
"That's it!" cried Johnny. "That's where we'll go—come on, fellers! Goo'-by, Dave; goo'-by!"
They surged toward the door, milled before the opening, and then shuffled to the street. Fraser threw an arm around Johnny's neck and slobbered about poor Squint. Johnny slipped the six-gun from Fraser's holster, dropped it on his own foot to deaden the fall, and then pushed it under the saloon. He staggered, with Fraser, out toward the horses and bumped into Dahlgren, who grabbed them both to save himself. Fraser's other arm went around his friend's neck and he protested his love for them both. Dahlgren's gun also struck Johnny's boot and was quickly scraped over with sand.
Under the saloon Two-Spot changed from all ears to mostly ears and some eyes, for his view was limited to below the hips of the maudlin gang. When Fraser's gun slid under the floor he became, for an instant, all eyes, and wriggled in greedy anticipation. Then he saw the second gun strike Johnny's boot and become covered over with sand, and he rocked from side to side with silent mirth, his boiled countenance acquiring spots of mottled purple, especially his nose. As soon as the crowd mounted, he crawled forward, wriggling desperately when the space became too small for hands and knees. He had to get those guns before the proprietor got them, for Dave would not allow him to own a weapon. When he had gone as far as he dared, he stopped and waited until the bunched group whirled away up the trail, and then wriggled more desperately than ever. Suddenly he stopped and writhed sideways behind a pile of dirt, for the heavy steps above his head ceased as a pair of enormous legs waddled into his field of view. Dave kicked around in the sand, found the weapon, and laboriously picked it up. The huge legs remained motionless for a moment as their owner watched the cloud of dust which rolled eastward on the trail.
"He's takin' chances," muttered Dave. "An' I can almost smell him from here. Six glasses of whiskey down his sleeve—great guns, but he must feel comfortable! Well, boys, I don't know where yo're goin', but nothin' would surprise me." He paused a moment in indecision, thoughtfully regarding the colt. "I reckon I ought to lose this gun down th' well—but I'll wait till he comes back."
The fat legs waddled out of sight and the floor creaked again. Two-Spot wriggled forward, snatched the Colt and backed to his nest, where he looked at his prize and gloated.
"Dave never saw you fall," he chuckled. "Oh, yo're a beauty; an' only two are gone. Cuss it! This is th' gun that shot me!" He considered a moment. "Now I got to get some .45's from th' store when Ol' Eagle-Eye ain't lookin'."
Meanwhile the exuberant committee tore over the trail until Fraser, wishing to let off some extra steam, felt for his gun. He reined in so quickly as almost to cause a catastrophe. Dahlgren now discovered his own loss and there was a wrangle about going back to look for the missing weapons. Their insistence won out and the committee wheeled, spread out, and cantered back almost to Gunsight, wrangling all the way. Yielding at last to the acrimonious suggestions of the other three, they gave up the search and set out again, beginning on the second bottle. When they finally arrived at the SV ranchhouse the afternoon was over half gone and they were so under the influence of liquor that it was all they could do to get to the door of the house. Staggering in, they went to Arnold's room and all began talking at once. There were no preliminaries—Margaret and Charley, caught in the room, were forced into a corner and had to hear the brutal threats. Johnny was the loudest of them all, but there was no profanity in his words; and he took the first chance that offered to wink at the helpless man on the bed. Arnold, ignorant of what he was supposed to know, pleaded in vain. Carson rolled up his sleeves and announced his intentions, staggering toward the bed. He collided with Johnny and they both fell. As Johnny scrambled to his feet he caught Margaret's eye and winked slowly. Then he let out a roar and blamed Carson for the fall. His eye caught sight of a calendar on the wall and he objected to the red numerals representing Sundays. Jerking out his guns he shot the numbers out, the bullets passing so close to Smitty that that valiant committee-man nearly broke his neck falling over a chair he backed against. A glass of water was shattered and then the guns became wobbly, covering everything in sight. Boasting that he could shoot out a fly's eye without touching the rest of the insect, he shot a spur off of Carson's boot and put a hole through Dahlgren's hat when he presumably aimed at the lamp on a shelf. Roaring and jumping, he accused Arnold of doing the kidnapping himself, and fired at a knot in the floor, missing it, and clipping a button from Fraser's vest. The committee was very drunk, but it was not so far gone that all instincts of self-preservation had fled, and it made haste to get out of the room. Smitty, finding the door blocked, and being in a hurry, went through the open window with remarkable directness for one in his condition.
"He ain't here!" shouted Johnny. "He's got away! Come on, fellers; we got to get him—pronto!"