Shoop strode forward. "The game's up, Sun. We want the Mexican."
"This is me ranch," said Sundown. "I got the papers—here. You fellas is sure welcome—only they ain't goin' to be no shootin' or such-like. I ain't joshin' this time."
A voice broke the succeeding silence. "If the Mexican is in there, we want him—that's all."
Sundown's eyes became bright with a peculiar expression. Slowly—yet before any one could realize his intent—he reached down and drew the Mexican's gun. "You're me friends," he said quietly. "He's in there—dyin'. I reckon Sinker got him. He drug himself here last night and I took him in. This is me home—and if you fellas is men, you'll let him die easy and quiet."
"I'm from Missouri," said Shoop, with a hard laugh. "You got to show me that he's—like you say, or—"
Sundown leveled his gun at Shoop. "I ain't lyin' to you, Bud. Sinker was me friend. And I ain't lyin' when I says that the fust fella that tries to tech him crosses over afore he does."
Some one laughed. Corliss touched Shoop's arm and whispered to him. With a curse the foreman turned and the men clumped out to the yard.
"He's right," said Corliss. "We'll wait."
They stood around talking and commenting upon Sundown's defense of the Mexican.
"'Course we could 'a' got him," said Shoop, "but it don't set right with me to be stood up by a tenderfoot. Sundown's sure loco."