“Let me at 'em!” implored Ashby, fingering his shotgun nervously. “Get out of my way. I don't want to pepper anyone else.”
But Bodson and Moore, bad as they were some respects, stood their ground.
“Are you going to let us at them?” insisted Duff, his voice now broken and harsh from anger.
“Not for the purpose of bullying them!” insisted Rafe, without moving. “Jeff, you're with me, aren't you?”
“Right by your side, pardner.”
“Come on, then, boys!” called Duff, the note of rally in his tone. “Help me to drive this pair of traitors out of your company.”
Like a flash Bodson's revolver was in his band. The muzzle covered the gambler.
“Jim Duff, down on your knees before I blow your bead off!”
The gambler started back, his face paling.
In the same instant Jeff Moore had also drawn his revolver, and held it ready for the first hostile sign from anyone in the group.