“When was this?” he asked.
“Waal, I’m figgerin’ that you know that jest as well as I do. I’ll thank ye fer the hand bag.”
“Was it this hand bag?”
“I’m sayin’ it was. Hand it over.”
“See here, you’re fooled.”
“Not on yer life, I ain’t. When ye hand that bag over, simply git rid of all yer other vallybles, too; fer I want ’em. How you knowed I’m called Gorilla Jake, I dunno; but it don’t make much difference. I’m him. Knowin’ it, you ought to know that I’ve got an impatient temper.”
Tim Benson stood up, smoothed out his facial muscles and threw off the dress he had drawn over his clothing. Then Gorilla Jake saw that he had a man to deal with. When fuller recognition struck him like a blow in the face, he fell back.
“Benson!” he howled.
“Needn’t yell it. There’s men on my trail; and they’ll be on yours in a minute, if they ain’t already. You know ’em, too—Buffalo Bill and his crowd.”