“Say, fellow, can I see you a minute?” he asked.
It was Dud Hollister. He drew Bob back into the smithy.
“Big guy in town lookin’ for you. He’s tankin’ up. You heeled?”
Bob felt as though his heart had been drenched with ice water. Houck was here then. Already.
“No, I—I don’t carry a gun,” he replied, weakly.
“Here’s mine. Shoots just a mite high, but she’s a good old friend.” Dud pressed a six-shooter on Dillon.
The boy took it reluctantly. The blood in his veins ran cold. “I dunno. I reckon mebbe I better not. If I talked to him, don’t you think—?”
“Talk, hell! He’s out for blood, that guy is. He’s made his brags right over the bar at Dolan’s what all he’s gonna do to you. I’m no gunman, understand. But a fellow’s got to look out for number one. I’d let him have it soon as I seen him. Right off the reel.”
“Would you?”
“Surest thing you know. He’s a bad actor, that fellow is.”