He stepped to the table, returned his own six-guns to their holsters and then reached out and seized Major Stover by the collar. He shook him like a rat as he jerked him to his feet.
"Well, majah, as yo' calls yo'self," he drawled, "looks like the surprise worked the othah way round!"
Stover's flabby face was blue-gray. His knees gave way under him and his coarse lips were twitching. His eyes rolled wildly.
"Don't kill me," he wheezed in an agony of fright. "It wasn't my fault. I—I—Goliday made me do it. He's the man behind me. D-don't kill—me."
Suddenly his head rolled to one side and his bulky body wilted. He sagged to the floor with a hiccupping sound.
"Get up!" snapped the Texan.
There was no response. The Kid felt of Stover's heart and straightened up with a low whistle.
"Dead," he muttered. "Scared to death. Weak heart—just as I thought."
"Did yuh shoot the big brute?" asked Harry, who had pushed his body through the window and slipped into the room.
"His guilty conscience killed him," explained the Texan. "Yo' saved my life, son, by throwin' down on Don Floristo. Yo' got him between the shirt buttons."