Miguel Cervantes unobtrusively left.
“I’m a stranger here, and mighty lonesome,” said Robinson with an air of confidential inquiry. “I don’t s’pose you gents could direct me?”
Galway Mike looked at Murphy, who made, answer:
“We might. Where to?”
Robinson leaned one elbow on the bar, and surveyed Murphy with piercing, laughing, reckless eyes.
“Upon my word,” he drawled, “your voice sounds a heap like Pincher Brady’s, pardner!”
The two men looked at each other. The red face of Murphy became redder. With a laugh, Robinson flung about as though to face the bar—and the hand of Murphy darted down.
Crack! The bursting report of a revolver filled the place.
“I was looking for that,” Robinson said coolly. “No, Mike, you leave that gun alone; I’d be right sorry to have to hurt you.”
Mike straightened up. Clinging to the bar with his left hand, Murphy looked down at his right, which was wounded.