Teddy took aim and fired. The rifle dropped from the man’s hand. His right arm hung useless.
“Getting to be expert at that!” Teddy yelled. “The next one who pulls a gun goes down! Found out we mean business, hey?”
“Greyhound!” Silent roared the name. “Greyhound, come out o’ that!”
“I’m comin’!”
The wounded man who stood holding to the flap of the tent was thrust aside. A figure, one arm in a sling, burst into the open. In his uninjured hand he held not a revolver, but a rifle!
“Somebody want me?”
The rifle was raised—with one hand Greyhound raised and aimed it. His finger touched the trigger and Silent’s hat sailed off.
Silent, head up, face grim as death, leveled his gun.
“Greyhound,” he shouted, “you’re finished!”
The gun was aimed straight at the outlaw’s breast. He stood not ten feet from Silent, a perfect target. But he did not move. Then, slowly, Silent’s gun was lowered.