This aroused the ire of the white miners and a meeting was called to protest. “This is a white man’s town,” was the cry of labor.
Small and McDonald agreed. “Just leave it to us,” they told the leaders. “No use in a lotta fellows getting hurt.” They stationed themselves at the mouth of the canyon and when the coolies arrived, a sudden volley from the bandits’ six-guns brought the caravan to a halt. The frightened Chinamen leaped from the hacks and fled in panic across the desert and Panamint remained a white man’s town.
Engaged at work around their hideout, Hungry Bill stopped to beg for food. They told the Indian to wait until they finished their task. His sullen impatience angered Small who booted him down the trail. Hungry Bill left cursing and told a prospector whom he met that he would return shortly with his tribesmen and assassinate the entire population.
Panamint City was warned but Small and McDonald declared that since they had started the trouble, they alone should end it. Accordingly, they set out for Hungry Bill’s ranch to stop the attack before it started. But near Hungry Bill’s stone corral they were ambushed by the Indians. The bandits shot their way into the corral and barricading themselves, killed and wounded about half of the renegades, after which the remainder fled.
Panamint City harbored a hoard of unsung assassins who merely lay in wait, shot the unwary victim down, took his poke, rolled the body into a ravine, went up town to spend the money.
One killer who came decided to dominate the field and with that in view he set forth to establish himself quickly as a gunman not to be trifled with. He chose to display his prowess upon an inoffensive, quiet faro dealer known as Jimmy Bruce, who, it was easy to see, “was just a chicken-livered punk.” The publicity of a well-done murder in such a setting would give prestige.
Armed with two guns, the bully contrived to start an argument with Bruce. The indoor white of the gambler seemed to grow whiter as the rage of his towering tormenter reached the climax. The players moved out of range. The bartenders ducked under the counter. Patrons helpless to intervene, fled from the kill.
A shot rang out. Cautiously, the bartenders lifted their heads. On the floor lay the bad man. Mr. Bruce was calmly lighting a cigar.
There was consternation among the killers. They swore vengeance. After five of them had fallen before Bruce’s gun, he was let alone.
The silent faro dealer, it was learned too late, was surpassingly quick on the trigger.