Naturally, Buffalo Bill could not look behind him. To have done so would have been an invitation for the man in front to drop his hands, pull a revolver, and begin firing.
“That you, Hendricks?” the scout called, without making a move to lift his hands, and without taking his eyes off the fellow in front of him.
“Sure it’s me,” came the voice, “big as life an’ twicet as onnery. Did ye hear me when I told ye to put up yer hands?”
“I heard you,” the scout answered, “and I’m not going to do it. The click of a trigger in your hands will be my signal to throw lead into Banks.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to have no foolin’,” snorted Hendricks. “If you want to drop yer guns an’ skin out, well an’ good; Banks an’ me won’t object. You’ll find it a heap healthier, I reckon, than to try to make front on the pair of us. We ain’t got no crow to pick with you, and you hadn’t ort to force our hands. Will ye git?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m a-goin’ to count three. By the time I finish the count I’m a-goin’ to turn loose the fireworks, unless you either git or throw up yer hands. That’s plain enough, ain’t it?”
“I understand you, but——”
“One!”
There was a tone in the voice behind that plainly meant business.