That was all. The brutal features of Galway Mike reddened, then turned deathly pale under the intent gaze of Fisher. One of his hands jerked up; for an instant it looked as though he would shoot the bound man. Perhaps he would have done so but for the crowd. Instead, he motioned to the back room with his weapon, and jumped down from the bar.
Two men picked up Sam Fisher, still bound to his chair, and carried him into the storeroom behind the main room of the saloon. It was a good-sized room, stacked with barrels and cases of liquor, with a single window. A lantern, hung to a peg, illumined the place dimly. Stowing the prisoner here, the men closed the door again and joined the clamorous throng around the bar.
The two arrivals from the south were hurriedly apprised of events—the departure of Sheriff Tracy, the killing of Matt Brady and ’Lias Knute, the rumored murder of Miguel Cervantes. In the midst Steve Arnold pushed open the doors and entered. At sight of him everyone pressed forward eagerly.
“Here’s Arnold of the Lazy S now! Hey, Steve, is it true Cervantes was shot to-day?”
Arnold swept the place with his eyes, nodding curtly. He saw nothing of Robinson.
“Yes,” he said. “Not shot—murdered.”
“Who done it?” went up a mad clamor of voices. “How? Where?”
“Ain’t for me to say,” returned Arnold.
His attitude would have provoked instant hostility had not two men rushed into the saloon at this moment with a loud shout.
“Hey! Chuck Hansom of the Runnin’ Dawg is comin’ a-smokin’ with a crowd; he says this feller ain’t Fisher at all; says he’s a feller named Robinson; murdered Cervantes! Chuck says him an’ Buck seen it done——”