Shorty looked up, saw Mac with his gun out, and then promptly fell over sideways to be out of the way. At the same time Mac spoke, Allen’s arms were seized by Sandy from behind.
“I ain’t done nothin’,” Allen cried.
He struggled to his feet and tried to free himself from Sandy’s iron grip. As he struggled, he ducked his head to shield his face with his hat brim and blinked his eyes. He knew that they were what would be most likely to give him completely away.
“Dang yuh, I ain’t done nothin’, let me be!” he again cried in a perfect imitation of an angry boy.
“Stay still. What’s your name an’ where do yuh come from?” Mac asked coolly.
Allen felt Sandy’s hands exploring beneath his arms and every other place where it would be possible to conceal a gun.
“My name’s Ashton, from down Fort Worth way. Mr. McCann brought me out here,” he replied.
“Yuh know One-wing?” Mac asked sharply.
“Sure, I see them arrive together, an’ One-wing tol’ Spur he knew him,” one of the other gunmen volunteered.
“An’ he ain’t heeled,” Sandy announced.