“Stop a moment, Henley. If our man is here——”
“He’s here, Carter, all right,” Henley cut in gruffly.
He swung round while he spoke and dropped the leash, then threw his shotgun into the hollow of his arm, instantly covering the detective.
“He’s here, Carter,” he added, with sinister significance. “Don’t you reach for a gun. Don’t move, blast you, or I’ll pepper you so with buckshot that you’ll look like a sieve.[Pg 30]”
CHAPTER VIII.
FACE TO FACE.
Nick Carter’s feelings upon seeing the sudden display of animosity by Pete Henley were not manifest in his face. He gazed at the swarthy ruffian with hardly a change of countenance, apparently indifferent to the double-barreled gun with which he was covered.
“What’s the joke, Henley?” he asked coolly.
The ruffian had murder in his eyes, and looked as black and threatening as a thundercloud.
“You’re the joke, Carter, if there’s any joke to it,” he replied, with a snarl. “You’ve barked up the wrong tree and tackled the wrong bunch. Stick up your hands, and be quick about it.”
“Certainly, Henley, since you insist so politely,” Nick rejoined, raising his hands as high as his head.