Mr. Baca received this rather staggering communication point-blank but, aside from a heightened color, bore up under it with surprising spirit. Indeed, he seemed less disconcerted than Ducky Drake.
“Ah!” said the lawyer. “You don’t lose much time in getting to the point, do you? Your candor is most commendable, and it shall be my endeavor to observe a like frankness with you. It is better so. Deceit and subterfuge are foreign to my disposition. Though not anticipating this particular turn of affairs, I have been forewarned against you, Mr. Jones, and have made my preparations accordingly. Felipe!”
One of the portières slid aside, revealing a slim brown young man with a heavy revolver, and a fat brown young man with a rifle. At the other door the curtains parted for a glimpse of an older Mexican with a benign and philosophical face and a long white beard. His armament consisted of one double-barreled shotgun. All these men wore appreciative grins, and all these weapons were accurately disposed to rake Mr. Jones amidships.
“My executive staff!” announced the lawyer urbanely.
Neighbor nodded to the staff. Fascinated Ducky did the same.
“So pleased!” he murmured.
Baca paused for a moment to enjoy his triumph. Then he waved his hand.
“That will do.” The portières slid together.
“I’m not scared,” explained Neighbor Jones earnestly. “That noise you hear is only my teeth chattering!”
“Oh, you punch!” Ducky drew a long breath. “If I had three wishes I’d want to be a puzzle picture—find Ducky Drake!” Then he giggled. “‘Gee! Sumpin’ must ’a’ happened to Ole!’” he suggested lightly.