"Yes," said Billy in a weary voice, "I understand. I understand perfectly. You can go now."
"I'll go when I have your answer."
"Your mistake. You're going now."
So saying, Billy arose, lowered the hammer of his rifle to the safety notch and laid the weapon on the table. Then he raised himself on tiptoe and stretched luxuriously. His arms came down slowly. He turned a surprised gaze upon the district attorney.
"Haven't you started yet?" he said briskly. "Come, come, get a-going."
Even as he spoke he leaped with cat-like agility upon the district attorney where he sat in his chair and wrenched the right arm of that surprised gentleman around behind his back. With his left hand, despite the struggles and protesting roars of the captive, he removed a six-shooter from a shoulder holster and a derringer from a vest pocket.
"You must be scared of some one," observed Billy Wingo, as the derringer followed the six-shooter to a place on the table. "Arise, pushing your stomach ahead of you, and depart in peace."
But the district attorney was averse to departing that way. "You will regret this outrage!" he bellowed, his ripe cheeks and the veins in his neck swollen with passion.
"So will you," said Billy, twisting the man's arm ever so slightly. "You are in a serious position. If you'd only realize it, and be reasonable, we'd all be happier. I don't want to break your arm—unless I have to. Observe, Mr. Man, how easily I could do it."
So saying, he pushed the district attorney's arm somewhat farther up his back. The district attorney groaned. Billy eased the pressure. The district attorney began to curse. Billy, boosting him with his knee, assisted him toward the door.