Angel sat up. His head was clearing fast, and his eyes flashed to Lila, who was standing close to Slim. No one was paying any attention to Roper Briggs, who had lifted his head and was peering across the room at Angel. Briggs had a gun beneath the crook of his knee, and his groping fingers closed around it.
Sleepy was coming back down the stairs, making plenty of noise. He was half-carrying old Rance McCoy, who was barefooted, naked to the waist, and hardly able to take a step.
“The old boy’s in bad shape,” panted Sleepy. “Don’t sabe what it’s all about. Cussed hell out of me.”
As they turned to look at the old man, blinking in the lamplight, Angel grasped the corner of the table and surged to his feet. At the same instant he saw Jess Fohl’s six-shooter on the table, and as quick as a flash he grabbed it with his right hand.
“Damn yuh!” he choked. “My turn, by God! If yuh move, I’ll——”
But Angel didn’t finish his threat. Roper Briggs had shot from his twisted position on the floor, and Angel buckled at the knees, striking his shoulders against the table, and falling backwards in the center of the room.
Roper chuckled and slid forward. The jar of the shot seemed to shock old Rance to a semblance of himself. He peered at Lila through the haze of powder smoke.
“Lila, why are you here?” he asked hoarsely. “What’s it all about, anyway?”
“Angel kidnapped her, Rance,” said Slim. “He was drunk and crazy. Langley is a prisoner, and I think Angel is dead.”
“He’s dead?” Old Rance limped forward, looking down at him.