“The hound!” he growled. “He didn’t give little Peterson a chance!”
The other eyed the wounded man sympathetically. “Williams ain’t bothered with no sech scruples as that,” he said. “Besides, he’s been totin’ a grudge agin ‘Smiley’ here, an’ figgered this was a chance to git even.”
“How’s that?”
“Seems the little feller strayed into town a couple o’ days ago an’ showed some nuggets so big they nearly made the eyes o’ Wasp an’ his gang pop out. They tried to git him full an’ then find out where his claim is. But it didn’t work. The little man was too sharp for ’em.”
“Good for him! Hope he gits well an’ shoots the everlastin’ daylights out o’ that coyote!”
“He’ll git over it, all right. Ain’t nothin’ serious, I reckon. Guess the Wasp wasn’t tryin’ to kill him outright, ’cause then he’d never git to know where the little feller has planted his stakes! An’, if I was you, McCoy, I wouldn’t be too careless with them remarks. Funerals is too common in this town as it is!”
Outside, the momentary hush which had fallen upon the crowd was quickly lifted. Some shrugged their shoulders. Others laughed. One or two tried a few pot-shots at the red “J” for luck; and in a short while the town was about its haphazard business as indifferent, as unconcerned as ever.
CHAPTER IV. THE RIDERS.
But less than a week later it had occasion to remember the incident!
The stage was held up and robbed in the deep woods just before it entered the town. Old Bailey, gallantly attempting resistance, was brought down with three bullets from the revolvers of the highwaymen. But the keen eye of the old Westerner somehow recognized the two assailants. Before he died, every one knew that the bandits were “Pete” Slocum and “Red” Ritter, two of the worst characters in the valley. Yet no effort was made to apprehend them. They quietly disappeared. No one assumed authority to trace them and administer punishment.