“Don't draw!” warned Duane.
“Lawson, git away from your gun!” yelled Laramie.
But Lawson was crazed with fury. He tugged at his hip, his face corded with purple welts, malignant, murderous. Duane kicked the gun out of his hand. Lawson got up, raging, and rushed out.
Laramie lifted his shaking hands.
“What'd you wing him for?” he wailed. “He was drawin' on you. Kickin' men like him won't do out here.”
“That bull-headed fool will roar and butt himself with all his gang right into our hands. He's just the man I've needed to meet. Besides, shooting him would have been murder.”
“Murder!” exclaimed Laramie.
“Yes, for me,” replied Duane.
“That may be true—whoever you are—but if Lawson's the man you think he is he'll begin thet secret underground bizness. Why, Lawson won't sleep of nights now. He an' Longstreth have always been after me.”
“Laramie, what are your eyes for?” demanded Duane. “Watch out. And now here. See your friend Morton. Tell him this game grows hot. Together you approach four or five men you know well and can absolutely trust. I may need your help.”