“God amighty,” cried Ronicky Joe, “are you goin' to let that murderin' hound-dog get clear off, Pete? Boys, who's with me for a run at him?”
For it was Harry Fisher who had fallen and lay now on the wet bank with his arms flung wide and a red spot rimmed with purple in the center of his forehead; and Fisher was Ronicky Joe's partner.
“You lay where you are,” commanded the sheriff, and indeed there had been no rousing response to Ronicky Joe's appeal.
“You yaller quitters,” groaned Joe. “Give me a square chance and I'll tackle Vic Gregg alone day or night, on hoss or on foot. Are we five goin' to lay down to him?”
“If that was Vic Gregg,” answered the sheriff, slipping over the insult with perfect calm, “I wouldn't of told you to scatter for cover; but that ain't Vic.”
“Pete, what in hell are you drivin' at?”
“I say it ain't Vic,” said the sheriff. “Vic is a good man with a hoss and a good man with a gun, but he couldn't never ride like the gent over there in the rocks, and he couldn't shoot like him.”
He pointed, in confirmation, at the body of Harry Fisher.
“You can rush that hill if you want, but speakin' personal, I ain't ready to die.”
A thoughtful silence held the others until Sliver Waldron broke it with his deep bass. “You ain't far off, Pete. I done some thinkin' along them lines when I seen him standin' up there over the arroyo wavin' his hat at the bullets. Vic didn't never have the guts for that.”