“Examine that, amigo,” he begged. “Every chamber is loaded—not a bullet missing. I haven’t touched the gun since I put it up in the office of the Delmonico Hotel.”
The scout waved the weapon away.
“Your bare word is enough for me,” said he, “and for the rest of your friends. Anyhow, Nate, it wasn’t a bullet that caused the trouble for Jake Phelps.”
“What was it?”
“The handle of a quirt, or a club of some sort.”
“I hadn’t a quirt with me,” protested Nate. “As for a club——”
He changed ends with the revolver and looked at the handgrip absently.
“This,” said he, “is the only club I could have used. Does it look as though I had used it?”
He held it up.
“This is tough,” muttered Perry. “If it isn’t one thing with us, it’s another, right along. My boy,” and he laid a hand on Nate’s shoulder, “that quarrel with Jake Phelps was bad business for you.”