“They’ll be here before dusk.”
Pape could not see the speaker from his cover point, but recognized the voice of him of the vegetable ears recently bested in combat.
“Have you thought about the crowd the flare’s going to attract, Mr. Allen?” the pugilist wanted to know.
“I’ve arranged for the police to stand guard over us.”
The complacency with which the lawyer made this assertion had a nerving effect upon Pape. His frame straightened with a jerk. His muscles tightened. His thoughts sped up. If the police were enlisted with the enemy through political “pull” of the ex-judge, it behooved him to decide at once upon the exact nature of such changes as he, personally, might be able to effect in the afternoon’s program. Perhaps too close upon decision, he acted.
“I have permits from the commissioner to cover every emergency,” the lawyer continued. “I can promise you that there’ll be no interference this time, even——”
“Except from me!”
The correction issued from behind the cottonwood and was followed immediately by the appearance of Peter Pape.
Samuel Allen’s assurance gurgled in his throat and the apple-red faded from his cheeks as he slid from his seat on the cart-tail to face the unfriendly, blue-black eye of a Colt.
“The—the impossible person!” he stammered.