"Guessed it!" yelped Slike. "Guessed it! Aw right, let it go at that. How far away is he?"
But the judge had his cue by now. "He's two or three miles back," he said faintly. "If you start now you can get away."
"You know damn well there's too much snow," snapped Slike. "How many's he got with him?"
"One—two."
Slike kicked the judge in the short ribs. "How many? Tell the truth!"
"Tut-two."
"Three in all, huh? and you and me are two—say one man and a half, anyway. Two to one call it. What's fairer than that, I'd like to know? We'll finish it out in the smoke right now."
"What?" There was considerably more than pained incredulity in the judge's tone.
"We'll shoot it out with 'em here, I said. I ain't kicked all the fighting blood out of you, have I? If I have I can soon kick it in again. Here, come alive, you lousy pup! Get the gun off that feller I downed. It's on his leg yet. His Winchester is over there in the corner. It's loaded, and there's two boxes of cartridges on that shelf. Bring 'em all over here. Then you take that window and I'll take this one. We'll give 'em the surprise of their young lives. Get a wiggle on you, Judge. You've got a brush ahead of you. Fight? You can gamble you'll fight! It's you or them, remember!"
"Suppose he comes bustin' in the back way?" quavered the judge, perceiving that he had indeed fallen between two stools.