Uproar filled the place, and mad confusion. For two minutes pandemonium reigned supreme. Then somebody thought of appealing to Steve Arnold to confirm the tidings, but when things quieted down Arnold proved to have vanished.
Hot upon the heels of this arrived Chuck Hansom and a yelling crowd. Standing in the entrance, Chuck showed a gun in each hand.
“Where’s the feller calls himself Sam Fisher? I’m lookin’ for him.”
Finding no prey awaiting him, Chuck strode forward, greeted his two brethren, and found himself confronted by Galway Mike, who held a sawed-off shotgun across the bar.
“Far enough, Chuck! We got Fisher in the back room, tied up. Hold on, you byes in the doorway! L’ave us be, will ye?”
Silence was obtained, leaving the center of the floor to Mike, Chuck Hansom, and the two Running Dog riders.
“Now, me lad,” pursued Mike over his shotgun, “what’s this tale ye been tellin’?”
“It was Robinson murdered Cervantes, and we’re aiming to ’tend to him,” returned Chuck. “He ain’t Sam Fisher at all, ye numskull Irisher! His name is Robinson——”
“It ain’t!” spoke up one of the two returned men. “He’s Sam Fisher, all right. Ain’t we been follerin’ him for two weeks? You’re locoed, Chuck!”
This staggered Chuck for a moment, then he recovered.