These were the two men who had been keeping watch on Fisher down in Pecos City. They knew without telling that the presence of Sam Fisher here meant danger to the Running Dog. Perhaps they had been too closely in touch with Fisher down below to retain much awe of him, and, besides, they were dead tired, nerves on edge, and reckless.
As with one accord they reached for their guns.
Sam Fisher came to his feet, gun in hand. He had no intention of shooting unless so compelled, but he was watching the two riders and not Mike.
Before any shot sounded Mike’s hand had completed its motion—a swift, underhand fling of deadly accuracy that sent his bung-starter down behind the bar unseen. It crashed into Fisher’s forehead and sent him down like a felled steer.
Two shots came. That bung-starter saved Fisher’s life, for it dropped him beneath the bullets. He lay quiet, momentarily stunned. In another five seconds the crowd had fallen upon him; he was trussed hand and food and bound in a chair.
Amid the pandemonium that ensued, with wild yells for ropes and much loud cursing, Galway Mike mounted the bar with a gun in each fist, fired into the ceiling, and evoked comparative silence.
“Byes, this gent is my meat!” he roared. “’Twas me dropped him, and it’s me that’ll have the say, moind that! There’ll be no lynchin’ party yet a while. Two of yez carry him into the storeroom behint and lave him rest a bit. We’ll be talkin’ this over, and maybe Buck will be in town to-night.”
The mention of Buck’s name carried weight. Besides, Sam Fisher had opened his eyes and was looking around. It was one thing to tie up a man—it was another thing to murder a bound and helpless prisoner. The crowd hesitated.
“Take him into the back room wid ye now,” repeated Mike, flourishing his guns. The gaze of Sam Fisher dwelt upon him for a moment.
“Mike,” said the prisoner calmly, “you’re interfering with justice, and you know it. Inside of an hour I’ll get you for this. Be ready.”