“Three minutes gone,” drones Wick.
Magpie turns to the crowd and takes off his hat. “Feller citizens, I regret I have only one tiger to die for.”
Then he opens the door.
We walks in like Daniel into the lions’ den or Joner into the whale. The bronc is plain and visible, standing between the pool table and the wall, with the reins looped around its feet. The card-tables are upset and the place shows that there has been a certain amount of action.
Sudden-like, up behind the top of an unset table come the head of Buck Masterson. He squints at us and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down like it was practising to hop out the first time he opens his mouth.
“Howdy, Buck,” says Magpie. “How’s each little thing with you?”
“Tut-tolable,” says he hoarse-like. “Just barely so, so.”
“Where’s the tiger?” I asks and Buck’s eyes get round as nickels.
He’s so scared he can’t speak for a minute; then he whispers:
“Uh-under me! I can’t let loose!”