Loudon worked his Winchester so rapidly that the reports sounded like the roll of an alarm-clock. At his sixth shot, simultaneously with a blow on his left foot that jarred his leg to the knee, he saw Luke Maxson drop his rifle and fall forward on his hands and knees.
Then Maxson jerked his body sidewise and sat up, his back toward Loudon, his hands clutching his legs.
Loudon lowered the hammer of his Winchester and gazed down at his numbed foot. Most of the high heel of his boot had been torn away. Which was the sole result of his opponent's marksmanship. Walking with a decided list to port he unhurriedly crossed to the hotel.
"Gimme a drink!" he called to the bartender. "An' have one yoreself."
"Forgeet me, huh?" chuckled Laguerre, hard on his friend's heels. "Mak' eet t'ree, meestair."
"Say, Tom," Laguerre said, when they were alone. "W'y deed you tell me to shut up, huh?"
"Don't yuh see, Telescope?" replied Loudon. "Here's Bill Archer a heap suspicious of us already. He's guessed we're from the Bend, but if we don't recognize Luke Maxson he won't know what to think. Anyway, I'm gamblin' he won't canter right off an' blat out to the 88 that two fellahs are on their trail. Instead o' doin' that it's likely he'll trail us when we pull our freight, an' try to make shore just what our game is. It's our job to keep him puzzled till everythin's cinched. Then he can do what he likes. It won't make a bit of difference."
"You are right," nodded Laguerre. "You t'ink sleecker dan me dees tam. But w'y you not keel de man, huh?"
"'Cause, dead an' buried, he can't be identified. Gripped up in bed he'll make a fine Exhibit A for our outfit."
"You was tak' a beeg chance."