“Oh! You wrote me a letter—”
“Sure. I’ll explain about that later. Meanwhile—”
He broke off and, bending swiftly, pulled his Colt from under the table. Breaking the weapon, he ejected a little shower of empty brass shells, at the sight of which his lips tightened. Still without comment, he rapidly filled it from his belt, Hardenberg watching him intently the while.
“Meanwhile, you’d like a little action, eh?” drawled the sheriff. “You’re right. Either of you hurt?”
He glanced inquiringly at Jessup, who was just wiping the blood from his cut face.
“Not me,” snapped Bud. “This don’t amount to nothin’. Say, was there a guy hangin’ around outside when yuh came in—short, with black hair an’ eyes set close together?”
Buck gave a slight start; the sheriff shook his head.
“I might have known he’d beat it,” snorted Bud. “But I’ll get the lyin’ son-of-a-gun yet; it was him told us yuh were in here.”
Hardenberg’s gray eyes narrowed slightly. “That’ll come later. We’ll round up this bunch first. If you two will ride around to Main Street and get hold of half a dozen of my deputies, I’ll stay here and hold this bunch.”