The swamper’s head sagged, but he did not reply. Some one suggested getting a doctor. Baggs seemed to forget Sailor Jones and came down past him, watching Cole and the swamper going toward the door of Cole’s private room.
Suddenly the back door opened and in came Jack Pollock. It seemed as though he had tried to make his entrance as inconspicuous as possible and had run slap into the spotlight. He was without a hat and minus his usual starched white collar.
Harry Cole had halted with the injured swamper when Pollock made his abrupt entrance, and Pollock came toward them, hardly knowing what else to do. No one spoke. Pollock had not closed the door behind him. He came close to Cole.
“Your door was locked,” he said, as though explaining why he had entered the saloon.
Many of those present did not know Pollock was supposed to be on his way to San Francisco. The swamper was sagging like a drunken man and Cole was trying to hold him up with one hand.
It was then that Hashknife Hartley stepped in through the rear doorway, stopped short and looked around. He was without a hat, his bandages slightly askew. Pollock’s head jerked around and he watched Hashknife from over his right shoulder.
“I reckon we’re all present,” said Hashknife slowly. “Ah, there’s our old friend, Amos Baggs. Yes, we’re all here and accounted for, gentlemen. Sheriff’s here, deputy’s here. Len, are you here?”
“Over here, Hashknife!” called Len.
“Good boy! Len, take a look at Mr. Baggs and Mr. Cole. These two men owe you five years—five years of bustin’ rocks. Prentice was the third member, but they killed him, because he might talk. I’ve got ’em cinched so tight that any jury on earth would hang ’em on my evidence alone!”
It was said in such a matter-of-fact way, so coldly confident, that every one was stunned.