“I don’t know what your game is, Henry,” said the other khaki-clad man, “but I’m playing it.” He tapped the counter gently with a black, squat, ugly-looking automatic. “Don’t reach for that gun again, kid, or I’ll blow your ribs out.”
Chihuahua Pete gave him a quick, sidewise look and again turned his attention to the little man, standing almost at his elbow. His face was a trifle pale. Sam and the travelers were immovable and tense.
“Thanks, Ed,” returned the little man placidly. “My game’s to teach this young bully some manners. He demonstrated on me just now. Turn about’s fair play.
“Now, you Chihuahua, I understand you’re a killer—shot a couple of men in the back awhile ago, or something like that. You’re all set to pick a fuss with me and drop me. Well, you get your chance. But so will I. Guess we better have that revolver off you while I make my proposition. That’s fair, isn’t it?” He appealed to the others.
A border booze-peddler has his failings, but a yellow streak is not one of them. Sam spoke up promptly: “Fair enough, stranger. No snap-shootin’ in this place while I’m runnin’ it.” He lumbered round the end of the counter, brushed by the little man and approached Chihuahua. “Pete, I’ll just take your gun.” The cowpuncher sullenly permitted him to withdraw the pearl-handled weapon. The larger khaki-clad man, without waiting to be asked, surrendered his automatic.
“All right,” announced Sam, disposing of the weapons under the counter. “Now, stranger, what you got on your mind?”
“Well, our young friend seems to have his fighting-clothes on today. He wants to hear some popping. I'm willing to oblige, so long as two pop, and not one.” He turned to Pete, who sat immovable, hatred in his narrow eyes.
“I see you have a rifle on your saddle. I happen to have one with me. You take your gun and get down behind that log I saw out here by the road as we came up. That gives you an advantage. I’ll lie out in the open a couple hundred yards away, say.
“When these boys give the word, we shoot. Start advancing whenever you feel like it. We keep on shooting till one has enough, or”—he shrugged his shoulders—“somebody gets hurt.”
“For God’s sake, Henry!” burst out the larger khaki-clad man. “That’s murder! Think of your family.”