Toothpick realized that he and Windy stood no chance against these two killers; he knew their reputation. Yet the bar was crowded; people were listening and were already commencing to shuffle to one side in the hope of a fight.
“Yuh gents is talkin’ loud. I’m bettin’ yuh my roll that Pete don’t get his neck stretched,” Baldy cackled.
Toothpick saw the menace in the killer’s eyes, and it sobered him. He tried to gather his scattered wits. He glanced at his friends and saw that they were incapable of action. Tad Hicks, with drooping head, clung to the rail of the bar. Toothpick knew that Baldy would push the affair and try to force Windy to take water. This, no matter what the consequences, Toothpick would not permit; certainly not, with that crowd of spectators all watching and listening. Windy had been a fool; Toothpick would have to use his wits to get him out of it. He chose his words carefully.
“That roll of yallerbacks sure makes me hungry like a coyote, ’cause it’s three days to pay day,” he said, grinning. Both he and Windy moved to the left. If it came to gun play, their right hands would not be hampered in the draw.
Baldy cackled derisively again. He turned to the hushed bystanders and grinned. Out of the tail of his eye Toothpick saw Jim Anson squirm through the crowd toward them.
Baldy spoke slowly and raised his voice: “Gents, I’m askin’ yuh to step up an’——”
Boom! A Colt roared behind Toothpick. Like flashes of light, guns leaped into the hands of Baldy and the Yuma Kid.
“What the hell?” snarled Baldy.
Toothpick swung about and saw Jim Anson looking foolishly at a smoking Colt on the floor.
“Darn it!” the hobo wailed. “The durn thing was loaded.”