“Git back or I’ll plug you. Sure will.”
“Oh, no. No sense in that. Bob Dodson now——”
The teamster had backed to the wall. He did not know what to do. He could not shoot a man lounging toward him with his hands in his pockets. Perhaps Dodson had sent him, anyhow.
“Did Dodson——?”
The question died in his throat with a gasp of consternation. He recognized now this easy-mannered intruder as the redoubtable Colonel McClintock, and he was not sufficiently alert-minded to meet the situation. If the man had come at him six-shooter in hand, he would have known quickly enough what to do. But in the fraction of time given him he hesitated. McClintock was a big man in the state. The teamster was not sure how far Dodson would back him. He had been hired by Sloan to take orders and not to show initiative. Before he could make up his mind the chance was lost. A dozen men poured round the corner of the house.
Irritably he barked out a question: “What in Mexico you-all doin’ here?”
Colonel McClintock held out his hand smilingly. “Your six-gun please.” Voice and eyes both carried an imperative.
The teamster clung to his long navy revolver. “Looky here. I’m in charge here. Dodson won’t like you fellows hellin’ around the Ground Hog.” His wandering eye took in the flushed sky, and found there a momentary inspiration. “Mebbe you don’t know Piodie is burnin’ up right now. You-all better light out for town.”
McClintock did not answer in words. His steady eyes still held the man with the weapon. His hand was still extended. Reluctantly, against his own volition it seemed, the teamster’s arm moved forward. He was still telling himself he did not intend to give up the six-shooter when Scot’s fingers closed on the barrel.
The two stood a moment, eye to eye. The mine guard’s hand dropped slowly from the butt of the weapon.