"I'll hurt yuh worse if yuh don't spit out what yuh know about Block an' his doin's."
"He—he—oh, I can't! I can't!" wailed the bartender.
"Block shore has you an' the rest o' these prairie-dogs buffaloed. I just guess yes. Well, yuh needn't tell me. I'm a pretty good guesser myself. Telescope, let's you'n me go call on Block."
"I am you," said Laguerre, and slid through a rear window. Loudon followed. They hastened along the rear of the line of houses and crouched beneath the windowsill of a small two-room shack at the end of the street. There were sounds of a hot discussion in progress in the front room.
"Guess he's home!" whispered Loudon. "Might as well go in."
Gently they opened the back door, and very quietly they tiptoed across the floor of the back room to a closed door.
"We've got to hurry," a voice was saying.
"Shore," said the voice of Sheriff Block. "You three cover 'em through the back window when me an' the rest come in the front door. Yuh know there won't be no fuss if yore fingers slip on the trigger. I'd rather bury a man any day than arrest him."
With a quick motion Loudon flung open the door.
"'Nds up!" cried he, sharply, covering the roomful.