"Reckon there's only one man who wants you more."
Steadily, I met his piercing gaze. This was a rustler not to be long victim to any ruse. I waited in cold surety.
"You thet cowboy, Russ?" he asked.
"I was—and I'm not!" I replied significantly.
The violent start of this violent outlaw was a rippling jerk of passion. "What'n hell!" he ejaculated.
"Bill, you're easy."
"Who're you?" he uttered hoarsely.
I watched Snecker with hawk-like keenness. "United States deputy marshal. Bill, you're under arrest!"
He roared a mad curse as his hand clapped down to his gun. Then I fired through my sombrero. Snecker's big horse plunged. The rustler fell back, and one of his legs pitched high as he slid off the lunging steed. His other foot caught in the stirrup. This fact terribly frightened the horse. He bolted, dragging the rustler for a dozen jumps. Then Snecker's foot slipped loose. He lay limp and still and shapeless in the road. I did not need to go back to look him over.
But to make assurance doubly sure, I dismounted, and went back to where he lay. My bullet had gone where it had been aimed. As I rode up into Sampson's court-yard and turned in to the porch I heard loud and angry voices. Sampson and Wright were quarrelling again. How my lucky star guided me! I had no plan of action, but my brain was equal to a hundred lightning-swift evolutions. The voices ceased. The men had heard the horse. Both of them came out on the porch. In an instant I was again the lolling impudent cowboy, half under the influence of liquor.