“We’re not murderers,” the boy said.
He groped his way to a chair and sat down quickly. Was he going to faint?
A hand fell on his shoulder. Through a haze Scot’s voice came warm and low: “Good old Hugh. Saved my life sure. You were that cool—and game. Every move you made counted. If you hadn’t devilled him till he lost his head he’d likely have got one of us. Boy, I’m proud of you.”
Hugh was ashamed of his weakness. “I didn’t play the baby this away when I got that Piute at the pass,” he said apologetically.
“Nothing to it, boy. You came through fine. Except for you—well, I would have cashed in. Come. Let’s get out of here.”
The owner of the Crystal Palace was standing near.
“Can you get someone else to finish my shift?” Scot asked.
“Sure.” The proprietor did a little legitimate grumbling. “There’s sixty-five saloons in this town, an’ I’ll be doggoned if everybody doesn’t come here to do their gun stuff. Seems like a man will walk clear up from Gold Hill so’s to pull off his fireworks at the Crystal. It don’t do business no good, lemme tell you.”
“You’re out of luck,” his dealer smiled. “But we couldn’t really help it this time.”
“I don’t say you could, Scot. I won’t mourn for Sam Dutch if you’ve got him. All I say is I try to run a quiet, respectable place an’ looks like I never get a chance.”