MILLER TALKS
A man stood in the doorway, big, fat, swaggering. In his younger days his deep chest and broad shoulders had accompanied great strength. But fat had accumulated in layers. He was a mountain of sagging flesh. His breath came in wheezy puffs.
"Next time you get your own—"
The voice faltered, died away. The protuberant eyes, still cold and fishy, passed fearfully from one to another of those in the room. It was plain that the bottom had dropped out of his heart. One moment he had straddled the world a Colossus, the next he was collapsing like a punctured balloon.
"Goddlemighty!" he gasped. "Don't shoot! I—I give up."
He was carrying a bucket of water. It dropped from his nerveless fingers and spilt over the floor.
Like a bullet out of a gun Crawford shot a question at him. "Where have you hidden the money you got from the stage?"
The loose mouth of the convict opened. "Why, we—I—we—"
"Keep yore trap shut, you durn fool," ordered Shorty.
Crawford jabbed his rifle into the ribs of the rustler. "Yours, too,
Shorty."