The hush of evening was in the air when he knocked at Bunker Hill’s door and after a look about Old Bunk went back into the house and brought out a heavy pistol. It was an old-fashioned six-shooter of the Indian-tamer type–a single action, wooden-handled forty-five–and Bunker fingered it lovingly as he handed it over to Denver.
“For self-defense, understand,” he said beneath his breath, “and look out, that bunch is sure ranicky.”
“Much obliged,” responded Denver and tested the action before he slipped the gun in its belt. He was starting for his cave, when from his cabin up the street the Professor came out and beckoned him.
“What do you want?” called Denver; then, receiving no answer, he strode impatiently up the street.
“Come in,” urged the Professor touching his nose for secrecy, “come in, I vant to show you some-t’ing.”
“Well, show it to me here,” answered Denver but the Professor drew him inside the house.
“You look oudt vat you do,” he warned mysteriously, “dem joompers are liable to see you.”
“I should worry,” said Denver and, whipping out 228the gun, he made the motions of fanning the hammer.
“Now, now,” reproved Diffenderfer drawing back in a panic; and then he laughed, but nervously.
“Well, what do you want to show me?” demanded Denver bluntly. “Hurry up now–I hear somebody coming.”