Black Jack chuckled at the cleverness of his plan. He drained his coffee at a gulp.
“Want tuh be hung er shot, you two?” he asked the other two.
“Yonder comes another spider, Pete,” said Shorty, ignoring Black Jack. “What’s the odds I don’t hit ’im?”
But a moment before, while Black Jack was talking to Kipp, Shorty had looked up at the window and square into the eyes of his partner. Yet he had given no sign that he had seen Tad, save that his left eyelid had dropped in a covert wink. He did not glance again at the window lest he betray Tad’s presence. He guessed that Tad was alone and was waiting for the right moment to open the attack. Shorty felt sure that Black Jack would put up a fight, even if Tad’s gun covered him. He had seen men of Black Jack’s breed before.
Death, to the breed, would be preferable to capture. Slim could still use a gun and the guard would fight. The light would be shot out and Tad would not shoot into the darkened room lest he hit a friend. It was a situation that would require generalship.
“——, Black Jack,” put in the guard. “Hangin’s a lot uh bother. Let’s knock ’em on the head and throw ’em in the river. If their carcasses wash ashore, there’s no bullet holes in ’em and nobody tuh blame. They was drownded crossin’ the river, savvy?”
“Mebbe yo’re right. We’ll pack ’em to the river like they are. Time enough tuh cut the ropes off ’em when we’ve got ’em knocked out. Slim, keep a eye on the sheriff while we’re gone. I’ll pack the little ’un.”
Black Jack, his black eyes hard as flint, lips set in a thin line, stooped to lift Shorty.
A brown streak of tobacco juice shot out, catching the breed squarely in the eyes. With a howl of pain as the stinging nicotine blinded him, the outlaw leader sprang erect, hands to his eyes.
A shot, accompanied by tinkling glass. “Stick ’em up!” bawled Tad.