With a stealthy movement Ellis arose, stood upright, and walked noiselessly down to the impromptu barbecue.
“Oh, Shorty!” he called.
At the policeman’s voice the man started violently and, wheeling like a flash, knife in hand, faced him with open-mouthed amazement, fear, guilt, cunning, and desperation flitting in turn over his rugged, evil face. With carelessly-held revolver the Sergeant watched him intently with glittering eyes, his attitude suggestive of a snake about to strike.
“Pitch up!” he rapped out harshly.
The other made no move but a terrible spasm of murderous indecision momentarily convulsed his face, which angered the policeman beyond expression.
“Pronto!” he roared explosively, with a shocking blasphemy and a forward jump of his gun that sent Shorty’s arms aloft with a galvanic jerk, the knife dropping to the ground.
Silently Benton surveyed him awhile, a deadly, menacing light like green fire flaming in his deep-set eyes, and the muscles under the livid scar on his cheek twitching.
“Yu’ look at me like that agin,” he drawled slowly and distinctly, “an’ I’ll blow a hole thru’ yore guts. Three paces forward, march!—halt!—’bout turn!”
The movements were executed with a precise obedience that drew forth a sneer from the observant sergeant.
“Huh! an old bird, eh?” he gibed. “Always thought yu’ were, from th’ cut of yore mug. I guess th’ ‘Pen’ shore went into mourning th’ day yu’ worked yore ticket. There’s a lump on yore hip I don’t like,” he continued sharply. “Here! Let’s go thru’ yu’!”