“Put ’em up!” yelled Arnold again.
“Take it, if ye want it,” growled the puncher, and drew.
Before his gun spoke, Steve Arnold fired—and fired again. Then Arnold came riding up to the plunging horse and fallen man, swearing huge oaths as he did so; the vivid flame of hatred in his face was terrible to see.
“Steve, I’m right s’prised in you,” said Robinson calmly. Arnold whirled on him.
“You didn’t see it!” he cried, his voice cracking. “You didn’t see it—I did! This here guy was one of the two—him and Buck done it. They shot down Miguel, murdered him, never said a word, jest let drive from the brush! By gosh, it was all I could do not to let drive on ’em—not a mite of warning, but two shots!”
The face of Robinson was grave, sternly set, ten years older.
“Was it as bad as that?” he queried. “Turn me loose, Steve!”
Arnold came up and fumbled at the knots. Tears of excitement were on his dusty cheeks.
“The dirty skunks!” he cried. “It was low down, Red—the worst I ever dreamed of. This guy was one of the two. But I give him warning; you heard me? I warned him ’fore I shot him down.”
“You done so, Steve,” affirmed Robinson, rubbing his freed wrists. “What happened after they shot Cervantes?”