"Surely yuh'll go!" he pleaded. "Yuh—yuh've got to! My father's in the coach!"
Garvey spoke up, smiling behind his mustache.
"What could we do against sixty Apaches?" he demanded. "Besides, the men in the stage are dead ones by this time. We couldn't do any good."
Robbins' face went white. With clenched fists, he advanced toward
Garvey.
"Yo're cowards, that's all!" he cried. "Cowards! And yo're the biggest one of 'em all!"
Garvey drew back his huge arm and sent his fist crashing into the youth's face. Robbins, weak and exhausted as he was, went sprawling to the floor.
And at that moment the swinging doors of the saloon opened wide. The man who stood framed there, sweeping the room with cool, calm eyes, was scarcely older than the youth who had been slugged down. His rather long, fair hair was in contrast with the golden tan of his face. He wore a shirt of fringed buckskin, open at the neck. His trousers were tucked into silver-studded riding boots, weighted with spurs that jingled in tune to his swinging stride. At each trim hip was the butt of a .45 revolver.
The newcomer's eyes held the attention of the men in Garvey's Place. They were blue and mild, but little glinting lights seemed to sparkle behind them. He was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, it was in a soft, deliberate Southern drawl:
"Isn't it rathah wahm foh such violent exercise, gentlemen?"
Robbins, crimsoned at the mouth, raised on one elbow to look at the stranger. Garvey's lips curled in a sneer.