“Lay on to him, boys, he’s locoed!” cried Aimes, turning to the men behind. He whirled again to face Shea, and his right hand crept to his hip. “Hello, Shea! lay down that——”
“You gave me a drink last night, didn’t you?” said Shea, halting before him.
Aimes laughed, thinking that he perceived what was in the other’s mind.
“Oh, want another, do ye?” he returned. “Well, lay down that——”
“You’re the man that gave me a drink,” said Shea. His deep bass voice boomed upon the morning air like a bell. “If any man dares to give me a drink again, he’ll get worse than this.”
Aimes suddenly perceived danger, and whipped out his weapon. Swifter than his hand was the axe helve. It struck his wrist and knocked the revolver away. As he staggered to the blow, the axe helve swung again and smote him over the head. Aimes made a queer noise in his throat and limply sank down.
There was something frightful in the deliberate way those two men had been felled. For a moment Shea stood gazing at the loafers, who shrank back before his blazing eyes. Then:
“I’ll do worse than this to any man who dares give me a drink again,” he said.
Without further heed, he passed into the garage. Up and down the street men were calling, running. The group outside the place looked at each other, their faces blanched.
“My Lord!” gasped someone. “He’s done killed ’em both! In after him, boys.”