Roush let fall a surprised oath. "It's 'Lindy Clanton you look like!
You're her brother—the kid, Jimmie."
"You've guessed it, Devil Dave."
The eyes of the two crossed like rapiers.
"Howcome you here? Whad you want?" asked Roush thickly.
Already he had made up his mind to kill, but he wanted to choose his own moment. The instinct of the killer is always to take his enemy at advantage. Clanton, with that sixth sense which serves the fighter, read his purpose as if he had printed it on a sign.
"You know why I'm here—to stomp the life out of you an' yore brother for what you done to my sister. I've listened to yore brags about what you would do when you met up with them that killed Ranse Roush. Fine! Now let's see you make good. I'm the man that ran him down an' put an end to him. Go through, you four-flushin' coward! Come a-shootin' whenever you're ready."
The young Southerner had a definite motive in his jeering. He wanted to drive his enemies to attack him before they could come at him from two sides.
"You—you killed Ranse?"
"You heard me say it once." The eyes of the boy flashed for a moment to the red-headed man. "Whyfor are you dodgin' back of the bar, Hugh Roush? Ain't odds of two to one good enough for you—an' that one only a kid—without you runnin' to cover like the coyote you are? Looks like you'll soon be whinin' for me not to shoot, just like Ranse did."
If any one had cared to notice, the colored roust-about might have been seen at that moment vanishing out of the back door to a zone of safety. He showed no evidence whatever of being sleepy.