“Ain't you goin' to take your gun out?” queried the deputy.
“Can I do that?”
“I reckon not,” said the deputy, and looked the stranger straight in the eyes.
His change to deadly earnestness put a hush over the crowd.
Across the target, not tossed easily as it had been for Pop Giersberg, but literally thrown, darted the line of white, while the gun flipped out of its holster as if it possessed life of its own and spoke. The white line ended half way to the farther side of the target, and the revolver slid again into hiding.
A clamor of amazement broke from the crowd, but the deputy looked steadily, without enthusiasm, at the stranger.
“Joe Cumber,” he said, when the noise fell away a little, “I guess you'll see the sheriff. Harry, take Joe Cumber up to Pete, will you?”
One of the bystanders jumped at the suggestion and led the other from the room, with a full half of the crowd following. The deputy remained behind, thoughtful.
“What's the matter?” asked one of the spectators. “You look like you'd seen a ghost.”
“Gents,” answered the deputy, “do any of you recollect seein' this feller before?”