He turned. Before the door stood a small consumptive-looking man in a light check suit. The tenderfoot carried two short-barreled Colt’s revolvers, one of which he presented directly at Black Hank.
“’Nds up!” he commanded, sharply.
Hank was directly covered, so he obeyed. The new-comer’s eye had a strangely restless quality. Of the other dozen inmates of the room, eleven were firmly convinced that the weapon and eye not directly levelled at their leader were personally concerned with themselves. The twelfth thought he saw his chance. To the bewildered onlookers there seemed to be a flash and a bang, instantaneous; then things were as before. One of the stranger’s weapons still pointed at Black Hank’s breast; the other at each of the rest.
Only the twelfth man, he who had seen his chance, had collapsed forward to the floor. No one could assure himself positively that he had discerned the slightest motion on the part of the stranger.
“Now,” said the latter, sharply, “one at a time, gentlemen. Drop yore gun,” this last to Black Hank, “muzzle down. Drop it! Correct!”
One of the men in the back of the room stirred slightly on the ball of his foot.
“Steady, there!” warned the stranger. The man stiffened.
“Next gent,” went on the little man, subtly indicating another. The latter obeyed without hesitation. “Next. Now you. Now you in th’ corner.”
One after another the pistols clattered to the floor. Not for an instant could a single inmate of the apartment, armed or unarmed, flatter himself that his slightest motion was unobserved. They were like tigers on the crouch, ready to spring the moment the man’s guard lowered. It did not lower. The huddled figure on the floor reminded them of what might happen. They obeyed.
“Step back,” commanded the stranger next. In a moment he had them standing in a row against the wall, rigid, upright, their hands over their heads. Then for the first time the stranger moved from his position by the door.