“I’m boss here, ain’t I? Gimme that revolver!”
“And let ye shoot Clayton?”
“That’s none of your bizness! Gimme that revolver!”
The man stood facing him. “See here!” he said. “We reports this biz to Snaky Pete, and Snaky Pete ain’t goin’ to like it. And we don’t take no more orders frum you while he’s gone. Do you git that through yer head, or do I have to hammer it into it with my fist? You’re no longer boss of this outfit. Ben, there, takes yer place; and he’s got yer revolver. Now go off some’eres and think it over.”
Molloy might have protested further, but that a feeling of dizzy faintness came upon him, and he had to drop to a seat on the ground.
Pool Clayton felt bewildered, rather than exultant, and he had forebodings. He did not know how this whole thing would be regarded by Snaky Pete.
He walked out to his horse, after putting his coat on, and changed the picket pin, trying to find something to occupy himself with, while he could think. Finally he came back and sat down by the fire.
Molloy, lying on the grass, panting and dizzy, glared at him malevolently. The men said nothing, though they steadily regarded both him and Molloy.
“A good un fer you!” said a voice.
Nick Nomad had spoken, much to Clayton’s surprise.