“And then you’ll trade me water for information, eh?”
“Yeah—and you’ll trade.”
The robber threw back his head and began laughing. It seemed to strike him as a huge joke and he shook with merriment. The muzzle of the sheriff’s rifle had been lowered perceptibly and his left hand rubbed his stubbled chin wonderingly.
“Trade me water for information! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
The robber threw back his head and slapped himself on the thigh. It was evidently the biggest joke he had ever heard. Again he roared his mirth, slapped his thigh heavily, and when his hand came up again it was comfortably filled with the butt of a Colt .45, and the muzzle was covering the sheriff.
The man had jerked forward off the rock, head hunched between his shoulders, his eyes glittering. For several moments the sheriff stared at him, realizing what a fool he had been not to take that gun away when he had the chance, and then let his rifle slide to the sand.
“I’ve done bought out yore tradin’ establishment,” growled the robber slowly. “Now, you’ll trade on my terms.”
“I was givin’ you the best of the trade,” said the sheriff, “What’s a few dollars to years in prison?”
“It’s jist accordin’ to how bad yuh need money. Back away from that rifle, Bennie. Hands up to the shoulders! Oh, shore, I’ll take yore six-gun! We may be twin brothers, but we’re not twin fools. That’s yore part of the heredity.”
“What are you goin’ to trade with me?”