He drops the paper and sets up straight in his chair. He’s got sort of a foolish look about his face, and he sort of gawps at me:
“Uh-uh—snakes? I—I don’t sabe, Ike?”
“I didn’t think yuh did. A man’s a sucker to ask questions of folks he knows can’t answer ’em.”
He uncoils from his chair, slides his gun around to the front and faces me.
“Ike, I got a question to ask you. Were you——”
Just then the door bangs open, and in comes Art Miller, all out of wind. He flops in a chair and pants:
“I—I told yuh! The—uh—uh—stage was huh-held up. About fuf-five miles down the road. Took all I had—dang the luck!”
“Mail, too?” I asks, and he nods. “Everything, I told yuh!”
“Well, well!” says I. “That must ’a’ been Kid Corey or Blazer Bailey. Worthy of your steel. Magpie.”
“Well, ain’t yuh going to move?” yelps Art. “Going to let ’em get plumb away as usual?”