"No, it wouldn't be best," he drawled, "to monkey with that gun o' yo'n. They say, yo' know, that guns are dangerous because they go off. But the really dangerous guns are those that don't go off quick enough."
The rustler leader rose to his feet on shaking legs. His face had paled to the color of paper, and beads of perspiration stood out on his pasty forehead.
"Yuh—yuh got the drop, Mr. Wolf," he pleaded. "Don't kill me!"
"Nevah mind," the Texan said softly. "When yo' die, it'll be on a rope. It's been waitin' fo' yo' a long time. But now I have some business with yo'. First thing, yo'd bettah let me keep that gun o' yo'n."
The Kid pulled Hardy's .44 from its holster beneath the saloon man's black coat.
"Next thing," he drawled, "I want yo' to take that body down from in front o' yo' do'."
Kid Wolf referred to the corpse of the unfortunate McCay spy whom Hardy had hanged. It still hung outside the Idle Hour, blocking the door.
The Texan made him get a box, stand on it and loosen the rope from the dead man's neck. Released from the noose, the body sagged to the ground.
"Just leave the noose theah," ordered The Kid. "It may be that the sheriff will have some use fo' it."
"The sheriff!" Hardy repeated blankly.