“Bosh! Think I’m green; don’t you? Before I have to tell you again to open those doors I’m going to blow the lock off ’em. Now, get busy!”
Don Caught Him by the Shoulder and Whirled Him Around.
The weazen little man was most deliberate. Coming around to the rear end of the ambulance, he reached up to the door latch. But this action was a bluff—the boy felt sure of that. The lad didn’t feel like carrying out his threat. To shoot through the doors might kill someone and he didn’t want to kill. At most it was desirable to inflict only a wound. Surely there must be a way to win out here and Don had already learned to depend on the power of his shooting-iron. He had every inch of his nerve with him at this moment.
“Can’t open it, eh? Can’t? Well, I’ll show you how then.” He walked quickly to the car and taking the revolver by the chamber in his left hand—not a thing a wise gunman would do at any time, under stress of threatening circumstances he caught the lower corner of one door that was warped enough to gap at the bottom, and, with a wrench he tore off the frail fastening. The doors flew open.
The next instant Don was tumbling on the ground, struggling to rise. He felt a determination to fight, and hold this man still uppermost in his mind, in spite of a heavy blow over the head from within the car. Where was his weapon? Why could he not instantly regain his feet? Was that the noise of the crippled car getting away? Where was Wash? Why did he not shoot?
Then there was a period of unconsciousness until, a few minutes later, he did get to his feet to stare into the frightened eyes of Washington White.
“Oh, by cracky, they hit me and—they’re gone! Wash, Wash, why didn’t you shoot ’em? Why didn’t you—?”