The bystanders, several comprehending, stood rigid. Pole Baker stared. Wade raised his Revolver, aimed steadily at the mark, and fired three shots in quick succession.
“Thar!” said the marksman, with grim triumph; “as bad as my sight is, I kin see 'em from here.”
“By gum, they are thar!” exclaimed Peters, with a strange, inquiring look into Pole Baker's set face. “They are thar, Pole.”
“You bet they are thar, an' some'll be in another spot 'fore long,” said Wade. “Now, Peters, you go in the house an' bring me my account. I've got the money.”
Wonderingly, the clerk obeyed. Pole went into the store behind him, and, as Peters stood at the big ledger writing, Pole stepped up to Nelson Floyd, who sat near a window in the rear with a newspaper in front of him.
“Did you hear all that, Nelson?” the farmer asked.
“Did I? Of course I did. Wasn't it intended for—” The young merchant glanced furtively at Peters and paused. His handsome, dark face was set as from tense, inward struggle.
There was a pause. Peters went towards the front, a written account drying in the air as he waved it to and fro.
“I was about to ask you if—” the young merchant began, but Pole interrupted him.
“Hush, listen!”