“I’ll drop nothin’!” Rage came into Maryland’s face. “You fool kid, think you can get away with that? I’ll—” he jerked the revolver up. “By golly, I’ll—”
Once, only once, did Roy’s revolver speak. But Maryland’s weapon flew from his hand as though it had been pulled with a cord. One minute there stood a bullying braggart of a man whose gun was his champion; the next moment in his place was a frightened dazed wretch, his face white, rubbing the hand from which Roy had shot the revolver.
“I’ll admit,” Roy declared calmly, “that that was a lucky shot. I aimed at your wrist.”
A look of complete bafflement spread over Maryland’s features. He looked at the gun lying in the road, then at Roy, and then at the crowd on the steps of the hall.
“Don’t do no more shootin’,” he muttered. “I feel kinda sick.”
Roy and Teddy both grinned at this. The men on the steps roared with laughter.
“So you’re sick, Maryland?”
“Try a little gun grease—a spoonful after meals!”
“Maryland, my Maryland!”
The former gunman shuddered and glanced at Roy. There was a strange light in his eyes.