"No we won't wait fer nuthin'!—not fer nuthin', understand?" corrected Trimmer aggressively. "I ain't a-trustin' you, Opal, no more! You done me up at every turn, and now, by God! you're goin' to come to terms!" He pulled an ugly, rusty gun, and thumped with its muzzle on the table. "You'll never leave this room alive if I don't git the money. Ring fer it, Opal, ring the bell, and order it in with the drinks!"
McCoppet would have temporized. It was not so much the money now as the state of affairs in the street. How much was known?—and what was being done? These were the questions in his mind.
"Don't get excited, friend," he said. "If things are out, and you and I are caught with the aces in our sleeves, we may have to fight back to back." He was edging around to draw his pistol unobserved,
But Trimmer was alert. "Stand still, there, Opal, I've got the drop," he said. "I'm lookin' out fer number one, this morning, understand? You ring the——"
A sudden, loud knock at the door broke in upon his speech, and both men started in alarm.
"Opal! Opal!" cried a muffled voice in accents of warning just outside the door, "Christler's on your trail! Come out! Come out and—huh! Too late! You'll have to get out the window!"
The roar and excitement of the coming crowd, aroused to a wild indignation, broke even to the den. An army of citizens, leading the way for Christler's deputies, was storming McCoppet's saloon.
He heard, and a little understood. He knew too much to attempt to explain, to accuse even Trimmer to a mob in heat. Nothing but flight was possible, and perhaps even that was a risk.
He started for the window. Trimmer leaped before him.
"No you don't!" he said. "I told you, Opal——"