"Yuh can rest yore hands against the wall," said Loudon, kindly, "an' that's just all yuh can do."
"Gimme a drink!" gasped the wounded man.
Telescope scooped up a dipperful from the bucket under the table. When the man had drunk, Telescope proceeded to cut away his trouser-leg and wash and expertly bandage the wound. His work of mercy finished, the efficient Telescope took post near the doorway where he could watch the street.
Loudon seated himself on the edge of the table and rolled a cigarette one-handed. A silence, marred only by the flurried breathing of the stuck-up gentlemen, fell upon the room.
"Block," said Loudon, suddenly, "where's Blakely?"
Block maintained his attitude of silent protest. Loudon gently repeated his question. Block made no reply.
Bang-g! Block convulsively shrank to one side. The line of citizens shook. Smoke curled lazily from the muzzle of Loudon's six-shooter.
"Block," observed Loudon, serenely, "get back in position. That's right. Next time, instead o' shadin' yore ear I'll graze it. Now where's Blakely?"
"I dunno," replied Block in a choked tone of voice.
"Well, maybe yuh don't, maybe yuh don't. Ain't he at the ranch no more?"