Michael just stared at him.
The people who had no interest in the trouble must have seen drawn guns before now, because I heard them breaking rapid for cover. The scrub which belonged to Ryan was formed up behind him for war, while back of Balshannon stood only Jim and Curly with the whole rear part of the room behind them empty. The two youngsters seemed to be having baby troubles, for Curly was struggling powerful to break away from Jim.
"I got to," he shouted, "I cayn't see to shoot!" Then he jumped clear. He had disremembered about being a cripple, he had torn the bandage away from his eye, and over the left brow, clear for all men to see, was his brand, the knife wound! At that a yell went up from Ryan's crowd, and some of his men surged forward, Louisiana and Low-Lived Joe in the lead.
I jumped straight at them with my brace of guns.
"Back!" shouted Ryan, holding them back with both arms. "Back! What's your hurry? Wait!"
"Come on!" came Curly's clear high yell. "Two thousand dollars daid or alive if you take me! I'm a sure wolf, and it's my night to howl, you cowards! I'm Curly McCalmont of the Robbers' Roost! Take me who can!"
Curly had gone plumb crazy, throwing his life away to get Balshannon one more chance of escape, but the crooks only saw that the small boy's team of guns were quick in his hands to shoot, and felt real glad of Ryan's outstretched arms. So came the lull, and I heard the bar-keep clashing down bottle and glass beside Balshannon.
"Whisky," says he in a shaky voice, "and yours, Mr. Ryan?"
"Irish," said Ryan, then whispered to his son, who hauled clumsy, getting out his silver-plated pop-shooter, a thing more fit for a girl than a grown man.
I like to think of my old patrone in those last moments of his life, as he stood at the end of the bar, quiet peaceful, facing Ryan. He was a tall, straight man, gaunt some, dead weary, but the only clean thing in sight. The grey moustache raked up against the red tan of his face, his hair was curling silver, his eyes cool blue. He seemed to be amused with the Ryans, and as to weapons, he just despised a gun. Then he heard the clash of his son's spurs just behind him. "Good-bye," I heard him whisper. "God bless you, Jim."