As soon as the older men had gone the others tumbled into bed and fell asleep at once. Daylight was sifting in through the open window before their eyes opened. Somebody was pounding on the bedroom door, which probably accounted for Flandrau’s dream that a sheriff was driving nails in the lid of a coffin containing one Curly.
Mac was already out of bed when his partner’s feet hit the floor.
“What’s up, Mac?”
The eyes of the redheaded puncher gleamed with excitement. His six-gun was in his hand. By the look of him he was about ready to whang loose through the door.
“Hold your horses, you chump,” Curly sang out “It’s the hotel clerk. I left a call with him.”
But it was not the hotel clerk after all. Through the door came a quick, jerky voice.
“That you, Curly? For God’s sake, let me in.”
Before he had got the words out the door was open. Slats came in and shut it behind him. He looked at Mac, the forty-five shaking in the boy’s hand, and he looked at Flandrau.
“They’re after you,” he said, breathing fast as if he had been running.
“Who?” fired Curly back at him.