"You, too," he said to Quincy, as he looked at him. "Don't you raise that shootin' iron! I'm boss here. Put 'em both on the bar, handles first, both of you!"
There was deadly earnestness in the big man's voice, and they obeyed him. Handles first the weapons were placed on the bar. Then Quincy said:
"You're makin' trouble for yourself. This man is my prisoner, and you're interfering with an officer."
"You a p'liceman?" asked the big man, as he placed the weapons under the bar.
"I'm Deputy Sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona."
"And I'm a member of the Northwest Mounted Police," said Benson.
"You're a long way from home, and you've got no friends here. This man has. He says he's a sailor, and I'm a friend o' sailors. Been one myself, and I make my livin' off 'em. And when a sailor runs into my place askin' to hide from anyone, police or not, I'm on his side every time."
"He's no sailor," said Quincy. "He's Bill Rogers, an outlaw I came East for."
"How about it?" asked the proprietor, turning to Rogers. "You a sailor?"
"Have been. Can be again," answered Rogers calmly.