"What d'you mean?"
But before the other could explain, Berkeley Fresno, who had sunk weakly into a chair at Larry's extravagant praise of his rival, afforded a diversion. The tenor had leaned back, convulsed with enjoyment when, losing his balance, he came to the floor with a crash. The sudden sound brought a terrifying result, for with a startled cry the undersized cow-man leaped as if touched by a living flame. Like a flash of light he whirled and poised on his toes, his long, evil-looking revolver drawn and cocked, his tense face vulturelike and fierce. His eyes glared through his spectacles, his livid features worked as if at the sound of his own death-call. His whole frame was tense; a galvanic current had transformed him. His weapon darted toward the spot whence the noise had come, and he would have fired blindly had not Stover yelled:
"Don't shoot!"
Willie paused, and the breath crept audibly into his lungs.
"Who done that?" he asked, harshly.
Still Bill brought his lanky frame up above the level of the table.
"God 'lmighty! don't be so sudden, Willie!" he cried. "It was a accident."
But the gun man seemed unconvinced. With cat-like tread he stole cautiously to the door, and stared out into the sunlight; then, seeing nobody in sight, he replaced his weapon in its resting- place and sighed with relief.
"I thought it was the marshal from Waco," he said. "He'll never git me alive."
Stover addressed himself to Fresno, who had gone pale, and was still prostrate where he had fallen.