“No. Keep in front of the bar where you are,” the sheriff commanded.
“And have everything stolen.”
“Your bar-keeper will be back presently. He will look after things for you.”
“You say Burkhardt is locked up?”
“Yes.”
“That will hurt his pride,” Vorse laughed. “He always swore that no one should put him behind bars. He wouldn’t have minded so much finishing in a gun-fight, but to serve a term in prison would surely go against the grain with Burk. Though I think with Sorenson–––”
Weir’s eyes had never left the speaker. Through the other’s inconsequential talk and apparently careless acceptance of the fact of arrest the engineer had noted the tense gathering of the man’s body.
“Put your hands up,” he interrupted at this point.
Vorse had uttered no following word after speaking Sorenson’s name; his voice terminated abruptly. At the same instant his right hand flew to his holster and whipped out his gun. It was the advantageous time for which he had waited, for Madden’s look which had been moving back and forth from Vorse to Sorenson so as to cover both had passed to the latter. And Weir’s weapon was undrawn.
But if Vorse drew fast, the engineer’s motion was like a flash of light. His weapon leaped on a level with the other’s breast. The report sounded a second before that of Vorse’s and three before Madden’s, who also had fired.