“Don’t be so ram-dam sure of that, Mr. Denny Harrigan,” he said, turning his back and going for his mackinaw, which was down the road near the men.
Smeaton looked up and saw the gun in Harrigan’s hand. He arose and walked quietly toward his boss, who was still watching Axel. Fisty felt the gun jerked from his grip, and before he could even call out, the big .44 roared close to his ear and he saw Axel’s shirt-sleeve twitch, a second before he leaped behind a spruce for protection.
Smeaton flung the gun from him and ran toward the shanty, as the men came up from here, there, and everywhere. The shot had been too near them to pass unnoticed.
Harrigan recovered the Colt and slid it in his pocket, as Axel came from behind the tree, white, but eyes burning.
“It’s all right, boys,” he shouted. “Went off by accident. Nobody’s goin’ to get shot.”
They picked their steps back through the heavy snow, one “Pug” Enderly grunting to his companion, “Dam’ a man that’ll carry a gun, anyhow.”
“Keep your hands easy, Denny Harrigan,” said Axel. “I got a better way to get even with you, and you knows it.”
Harrigan fingered the butt of the Colt in his pocket. So Barney was going to peach about—no, he couldn’t prove anything about Ross and the Indian, but he did know too much about a certain find on Lost Farm tract. Harrigan snarled as he realized that Axel held the whip-hand.
He jerked the gun from his pocket, murder gleaming in his agate-blue eyes.
“Now, you git, quick!” he snapped, leveling the short, ugly barrel at Axel’s head.