“Don’tcha hear me? Beg me to let you go. Crawl over an’ lick my boots. Maybe I’ll go easy on you like you two dern fools done with me.” A jangle of hideous laughter accompanied his words. He kicked his opponent in the side.
Hugh looked at him steadily, without a word.
“Thought you had the Injun sign on me, eh? Both of you? Well, I’ll say right here there never was a minute I was scared of either one of you—or both. Me, I’m Sam Dutch, a sure enough killer. An’ you—you’re Number Fifteen. Ole Dan Tucker’s come to git his supper, an’ he ain’t too late, neither.”
He was working himself up for murder. Soon his passion would be boiling over. Then he would strike.
One thought dominated Vicky, drove out all others. She must save Hugh McClintock. She forgot to be afraid, forgot to remember that this scoundrel was the terror of Nevada. Noiselessly she crept forward and pushed the revolver into his back just below the shoulders.
“If you move I’ll shoot you,” she said hoarsely.
The stream of curses died in the fellow’s throat. His jaw fell. Ludicrously his immature mind groped with the situation.
Three slow taps rose from the floor. Dutch gasped. Those taps had always heralded disaster for him.
Vicky drew a knife from his boot and a revolver from the belt he was wearing. She dropped them on the floor.
“Walk to the door,” she ordered. “Go outside. If you come in before I call you I’ll shoot holes in you.”