When Banner called for Courtrey there was a sound of boots on the board floors, inside, a woman’s pleading voice, and the cattle king came swinging out, his hands at his waist, his two guns covering the crowd.
Tall, straight as a lance, his iron-grey head uncovered, he was a striking figure of a man. His henchmen watched him sharply. At his side clung the slim woman, Ellen, her milky face thin and 206 tragic. He shook her loose and faced the newcomers.
“Well?” he snapped, “what’s this?”
“Courtrey,” said Banner, “we’re here in th’ name o’ th’ law. We demand t’ see them guns o’ yours.”
If the knowledge that Jim Banner was a brave man needed confirmation, it had it in that speech. Few men in the world could have made it, and gotten away with it. None in a different setting. Courtrey heard it, but he paid little heed to it at the moment. His eyes went to the face of Tharon Last and drank in its beauty hungrily.
Presently he shifted his gaze and regarded Kenset with a cold light that was evil.
“Who wants ’em?” he asked drawlingly.
“We do.”
“Hell! Want Courtrey’s guns! You’re modest, Jim.
“An’ what do you want, Tharon?”