“If I went to the marshal—”
Dud’s eye held derision. “What good’d that do? Simp ain’t gonna draw cards till after some one’s been gunned. He don’t claim to be no mind-reader, Simp don’t.”
“I’m not lookin’ for trouble,” Bob began to explain.
“Fellow, it’s lookin’ for you,” cut in Dud. “You hold that gun right under yore coat, an’ when you meet up with Mr. Hook or whoever he is, don’t you wait to ask ‘What for?’ Go to fannin’.”
Bob rejoined June. His lips were bloodless. He felt a queer weakness in the knees.
“What did he want?” asked June.
“Houck’s here—lookin’ for me,” the wretched boy explained.
“What’s that you’ve got under yore coat?” she demanded quickly.
“It’s a—a gun. He made me take it. Said Houck was tellin’ how he’d—do for me.”
The fear-filled eyes of the boy met the stricken ones of his bride. She knew now what she had before suspected and would not let herself believe.