“It’s on the butt of my gun, Sandusky.”
“What’s that he says?” demanded the man known as the butcher, asking the question of Logan, but without taking his eyes off his shifty prey.
Logan raised his voice to repeat the words and to add a ribald comment.
“You make a good deal of noise,” muttered Sandusky, speaking again to de Spain.
“That ought not to bother you much, Sandusky,” shouted de Spain, trying to win a smile from his taciturn antagonist.
“His noise won’t bother anybody much longer,” put in Logan, whose retorts overflowed at every interval. But there was no smile even hinted at in the uncompromising vigilance of Sandusky’s expressionless face. De Spain discounted the next few minutes far enough to feel that Sandusky’s first shot would mean death to him, even if he could return it.
“I’ll tell you, de Spain,” continued Logan, 129 “we’re going to have a drink with you. Then we’re going to prepare you for going back where you come from––with nice flowers.”
“I guess you thought you could come out here and run over everybody in the Spanish Sinks,” interposed Morgan, with every oath he could summon to load his words.
“Keep out, Morgan,” exclaimed Logan testily. “I’ll do this talking.”
De Spain continued to banter. “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the three together and realizing that every moment wasted before the shooting added a grain of hope, “I am ready to drink when you are.”