“They tried twice to kill me,” said Hashknife, “because they knew I’d hang ’em higher than a kite!”
Harry Cole’s right hand whipped in under his coat and a blued Colt flashed from a shoulder holster, but he was too slow, even with all his speed. Hashknife fired once, and the shock of the heavy bullet, striking Cole in the left shoulder, whirled him on his heel and he went down flat, with the sagging swamper falling half across him.
And almost at the same instant Sleepy, who had entered the front door, came with a football rush, folded both arms around the middle of Amos Alexander Baggs, and they crashed down in the middle of the floor, with Sleepy on top of him.
Pollock, who had jerked aside, seeking a way out, possibly thinking that he had not been included, was brought up short when Hashknife’s gun barrel dug deeply into his ribs.
“You ain’t goin’ no place, Pollock,” he said shortly.
The crowd was moving forward now, coughing from the powder fumes, wondering aloud what it was all about. Sleepy jerked Amos to his feet. The skid on the rough floor had removed some skin from the bridge of Amos’s nose, and the shock of the exposé seemed to have caved in his morale.
“I can talk, can’t I?” he panted anxiously. “Can’t I tell what I know? I have that right, sheriff. I—I know my rights. I’ll talk.”
No doubt Amos could see the outline of the gallows, and he wanted to save his skin at the expense of his confederates. Hashknife stilled the hubbub.
“Let him talk, if he wants to, boys. He has a right.”
“I know I have,” whined Amos.