Goatry held out his hand. “I’m with you. If you get him this time, clamp him, clamp him like a tooth in a harrow.”
Halbeck had stopped his horse at the post-office door. Dismounting he looked quickly round, then drew the reins over the horse’s head, letting them trail, as is the custom of the West.
A few swift words passed between Goatry and Foyle. “I’ll do this myself, Jo,” he whispered to the girl presently. “Go into another room. I’ll bring him here.”
In another minute Goatry was leading the horse away from the post-office, while Foyle stood waiting quietly at the door. The departing footsteps of the horse brought Halbeck swiftly to the doorway, with a letter in his hand.
“Hi, there, you damned sucker!” he called after Goatry, and then saw Foyle waiting.
“What the hell—!” he said fiercely, his hand on something in his hip pocket.
“Keep quiet, Dorl. I want to have a little talk with you. Take your hand away from that gun—take it away,” he added with a meaning not to be misunderstood.
Halbeck knew that one shout would have the town on him, and he did not know what card his brother was going to play. He let his arm drop to his side. “What’s your game? What do you want?” he asked surlily.
“Come over to the Happy Land Hotel,” Foyle answered, and in the light of what was in his mind his words had a grim irony.
With a snarl Halbeck stepped out. Goatry, who had handed the horse over to the hostler, watched them coming.