“I've four shots left, Jim,” remarked Rafe Bodson calmly, as he ceased firing. “Call me names, if you think it wise.”
Like a flash Duff drew one of his own revolvers. Before he had time to fire, however, three men threw themselves between Bodson and the gambler.
“Stop talking gun play, Rafe,” warned one of the three. “Act like a gentleman.”
“I've forgotten how to do that,” Rafe remarked. “I've traveled with this outfit too long.”
“Put up your guns. Then we'll attend to this pair of youngsters.”
“My guns remain in my hands,” Bodson declared coolly. “I expect to die with my boots on to-night. I reckon Jeff has figured it out the same way.”
“I have,” Moore answered coolly, as he stepped over beside Bodson. Then deliberately, yet with an indescribably swift motion, he drew two revolvers.
“Stand out, Jim Duff! Be a man, for once in your miserable career,” ordered Rafe Bodson. “Don't try to protect yourself by hiding behind the bodies of men who don't know any better than to follow your lead.”
Jim Duff didn't accept the challenge. Instead, he crouched behind two of his followers, taking deliberate aim with his revolver at Bodson.
But he never fired that cowardly shot. Like a flash from the sky came an interruption that created panic among the assembled scoundrels.