The attack was so absolutely unprovoked, and so sudden was it, that Teddy and Roy stood there while the bullets dug up the earth.
“Dance!” the man roared. “Step out, boys, afore I raise my sights on this here weapon! Dance! You hear the music? Well, don’t let it go to waste!”
At the sound of the revolver, men who had been making merry inside rushed from the hall. They saw the gleam of the gun and saw also that neither Teddy nor Roy was obeying the shouted commands to “dance!”
“Maryland, what do you think you’re doin’?” some one called.
“I’m givin’ myself a private show,” was the answer. “Strictly private!”
He had shot four times and had two bullets left in the gun. The four shots had followed so quickly on one another that the sound seemed continuous.
Then it was that Roy awoke. Slowly, with no attempt at haste, he drew his own revolver. Those watching from the steps of the dance hall saw him level it carefully.
“You,” he said quietly, “drop that gun!”
“Huh?” Maryland, to give him the title which had just been applied, stared at the boy. Was this kid, this half-baked kid, trying to face him down? Him, the terror of the mining camp?
“You heard me,” Roy went on, still in that even-toned voice. “I said drop the gun!”