“As ready as you are,” observed Tom dryly.
“And you?” asked Duff, turning to Hazelton. “Are you ready?”
“I'm not particular about feeling a lariat around my neck,” Harry answered, “but I'll follow my friend Reade anywhere—even where you propose to send us.”
“Ay, but that's courage of the kind you don't expect to find in a blamed tenderfoot!” remarked Jeff Moore, resting a hand first on Tom's shoulder and then on Harry's.
“Why?” asked Tom. “Does it surprise you?”
“It shore does,” replied Jeff.
“Is courage a matter of geography, then?” Tom inquired.
“I—I—pardner, you've got me there,” Jeff admitted, looking puzzled. “Yet, somehow, I never looked for much courage in a fellow who hailed from east of the Mississippi.”
George Ashby had been looking on during the last few moments, his eyes glittering strangely. Yet, as he said nothing, the attention of the others had turned from him.
Jeff Moore happened to turn just in time to see the muzzle of the shotgun turned fully on Tom Reade's waist line, and Ashby's forefinger resting on one of the triggers.