Skeeter did not look up. The name meant nothing to him; he was thinking rapidly. He still had his gun. It was true that at least three six-shooters were leveled at him, but he might last long enough to make them sorry they had followed him.
“Take his gun, Slim,” ordered the sheriff, and one of the cowboys swung down and deftly yanked Skeeter’s gun from its holster.
Skeeter glanced up at Freel and smiled wearily.
“I’m glad your man took my gun, sheriff. I feel better now.”
“Yeah?”
Freel took the gun from the cowboy and dropped it into his pocket as he turned to Skeeter.
“Mind tellin’ us about it?”
Skeeter glanced at the dead man and around at the circle of cowboys.
“No-o-o, I don’t reckon I will, sheriff.”
“What did yuh shoot him for?”