His heavy Colt revolver flicked into Sam Conifer’s hand as if by magic, and lay trembling there in his palm. Then it slipped smoothly towards his finger tips as if doing so of its own volition, spun and slid without an apparent movement of the arm, always moving, now like a flash of light, then with slow easy grace, but, as it was observed by the keen eyes of the watchers, with the muzzle ever pointed towards him of the swarthy face.
As the weapon slipped back into its holster, and the rheumatic hand of the old guide lay trembling on its butt, a look of relief passed over the face of the dark mountaineer.
The others in the cabin looked their amazement, for few there had ever seen a gun handled as this old, stoop-shouldered intruder handled his. It was a revelation, though not a pleasant one. It was a warning as well, but they were watching him—watching and waiting for that moment when the old man’s alert, shifting glances should wander from some of them for a few golden seconds.
“Say, ye feller! Who be ye?” demanded the dark man. “What do ye mean by holdin’ up a bunch o’ honest prospectors?”
Sam Conifer grinned sardonically.
“Honest, did ye say? You don’t know the meanin’ o’ that word. Them’s queer words comin’ from the lips o’ Mexican Charlie.”
The dark man started, flushed and reached for his weapon, but thinking better of it, permitted his hand to slip back to its former position.
“I wants to know whar the boy is? Mex, I ask ye, whar is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ye lie, Mex! Yer too yellow to draw at thet word. Whar’s my pard, Jim?”