Skeeter turned almost white. Conko had the reputation of having killed several men, and Skeeter had no desire to be commemorated by the next notch carved on the butt of his gun.
He rose hastily to his feet and started toward the little safe in the corner of the barroom. Conko followed him, his big gun punching at a spot between Skeeter’s shoulder blades, which turned cold as ice from the contact of the steel. Conko was not sure whether Skeeter was going after money or a gun.
The trembling barkeeper stooped and opened the little door of his safe. He took out the only ten dollars he had in the world and thrust it into Conko’s hands.
“Good-by, Skeeter,” Conko grinned. “Dat wus a very narrer escapement fer you. I done kilt plenty niggers fer less money!”
III
The next day Skeeter faced bankruptcy.
Conko possessed the gift of expression and liked to talk. He exhibited the ten dollars he had secured from Skeeter, boasted of the forcible methods he used to extract it from the barkeeper’s roll, and started eight others to planning how they also could get their money back.
The Rev. Vinegar Atts called early, and brought Conko Mukes with him.
“I wants my money back, Skeeter!” he howled. “Conko an’ me been talkin’ it over. He specifies dat I kin come an’ shoot off my mouth, an’ he’ll be handy to shoot off his gun; but I hopes dat ain’t needful to pussuade you to do yo’ Christyum duty an’ hand my dollars back. Ef you don’t see it dat way, I kin do de tongue-lashin’ an’ Conko kin do de razor-slashin’. How soon is you gwine hand over my ten?”
“I ain’t got no tenner, Vinegar,” Skeeter said nervously. “Conko will tell you dat he got my las’ dollar.”