In two minutes Flandrau had made himself famous, for he was a marked man. The last words of the straggling desperado had been that he would shoot on sight. Now half a dozen talked at once. Some advised Curly one thing, some another. He must get out of town. He must apologize at once to Stone. He must send a friend and explain.
The young man laughed grimly. “Explain nothing. I’ve done all the explaining I’m going to. And I’ll not leave town either. If Soapy wants me he’ll sure find me.”
“Don’t be foolish, kid. He has got four notches on that gun of his. And he’s a dead shot.”
The tongues of those about him galloped. Soapy was one of these Billy-the-Kid killers, the only one left from the old days. He could whang away at a quarter with that sawed-off .45 of his and hit it every crack. The sooner Curly understood that no boy would have a chance with him the better it would be. So the talk ran.
“He’s got you bluffed to a fare-you-well. You’re tame enough to eat out of his hand. Didn’t Luck Cullison go into the hills and bring him down all alone?” Flandrau demanded.
“Luck’s another wonder. There ain’t another man in Arizona could have done it. Leastways no other but Bucky O’Connor.”
But Curly was excited, pleased with himself because he had stood up to the bogey man of the Southwest, and too full of strength to be afraid.
Maloney came into the barber shop and grinned at him.
“Hello, son!”
“Hello, Dick!”