“One moment, please, gentlemen!”
They halted. Ed, the wounded man, called in rough but earnest tones:
“None o’ the old stuff, Stewart! ‘We know darned well you ain’t a-goin’ to shoot us, so don’t try no bluff. We don’t want to hurt you.”
“An’ we know you ain’t no soldier, so cut it out,” added another.
“All that is perfectly true,” Denis smiled. “Take a look at my rifle—you see where it is pointing?”
They squinted in at him, Ballard leaning over. Denis was pointing his rifle at the doorsill.
“What you say is quite correct,” he went on steadily. “I wouldn’t shoot you down at all. But I am equally correct in saying that you won’t get Cowley unless you shoot me down—which I don’t think you’ll do by a good deal. I have several cartridges in this rifle, perfectly good ones, and you’ve seen that I know how to shoot.
“Of course, you can rush me. Very likely you will. But let me impress on you just one thing. I can fire at least two shots before you reach me, and then I have a revolver for quick work. The first man of you who sets his foot on that door threshold will get a bullet in it—in his foot. It’ll make a nasty wound, too. Step right along, Ballard! You’ll have to murder me to get Cowley, you know. Step up, gentlemen!”
No one accepted the invitation.
The seated figure of Denis, the rifle leveled and waiting, gave them pause. By his steady voice and cold blue eye they knew that he was in deathly earnest. The first to step on the threshold would probably be crippled for life.