“Sir! Stop it, I tell you,” quivered Duff, again stepping to the front.
“These young hounds shan't die until I've made them apologize for every
insulting word they've said to me.”
“Fine!” glowed Tom with enthusiasm.
“Great!”
“What ails you now, Reade?” demanded Duff, his face again darkening.
“You've just promised us that we shall live forever,” returned Tom
dryly.
Then he added, with a sigh:
“But I suppose that's only another lie--another specimen of a gambler's
honor.”
“Stand aside, Bodson! Moore, you get out of the way!” snarled the
gambler, his anger again depriving him of all reason. “I'll have my way
with these young hounds before we string 'em up.”
“Let me at 'em!” implored Ashby, fingering his shotgun nervously. “Get
out of my way. I don't want to pepper anyone else.”
But Bodson and Moore, bad as they were some respects, stood their
ground.
“Are you going to let us at them?” insisted Duff, his voice now broken
and harsh from anger.
“Not for the purpose of bullying them!” insisted Rafe, without moving.
“Jeff, you're with me, aren't you?”
“Right by your side, pardner.”
“Come on, then, boys!” called Duff, the note of rally in his tone. “Help
me to drive this pair of traitors out of your company.”
Like a flash Bodson's revolver was in his band. The muzzle covered the
gambler.
“Jim Duff, down on your knees before I blow your bead off!”
The gambler started back, his face paling.
In the same instant Jeff Moore had also drawn his revolver, and held it
ready for the first hostile sign from anyone in the group.
“What's the matter with you, Rafe?” demanded the gambler, in a
half-coaxing tone.
“Nothing,” Bodson assured him calmly, “except that I'm going to blow
your head off if you aren't down on your knees before I've counted
three! One--two--th--”
Duff dropped to his knees, holding his hands high in air.
“Now apologize for calling us traitors,” admonished Rafe. “Do it
handsomely, too, while you're about it.”
“Rafe,” protested Jim Duff, “you, know that I said what I did only
because I was angry. I know you're a gentleman, and you know that I know
it. If I've hurt your feelings, I'm sorry, a thousand times over.”
“Jim, you're a good deal of a sneak, aren't you?” inquired Rafe, in a
voice that sounded pleasant enough, but which carried a warning in its
tone.
“Yes,” Duff admitted. “I guess I'm a good deal of a sneak.”
“Get up on your feet, then. We understand one another,” said Bodson. “Go
ahead, if you want to, and carry out your plans for a merry evening. But
don't make the mistake of calling ugly names again, and don't forget all
you've said about the square deal. Hang these tenderfeet, if that's what
you want to do, but don't hit men without first giving them a chance to
hit back.”
Duff, shaking partly from fear, though more from a sense of his
humiliation, rose to his feet. For a moment he stood choking down his
varied emotions. Then, with an attempt at his old-time, suave banter, he
inquired:
“Are you young gentlemen ready for the collar and neck-tie party that
we've planned to give you?”
“As ready as you are,” observed Tom dryly.
“And you?” asked Duff, turning to Hazelton. “Are you ready?”
“I'm not particular about feeling a lariat around my neck,” Harry
answered, “but I'll follow my friend Reade anywhere--even where you
propose to send us.”
“Ay, but that's courage of the kind you don't expect to find in a blamed
tenderfoot!” remarked Jeff Moore, resting a hand first on Tom's shoulder
and then on Harry's.
“Why?” asked Tom. “Does it surprise you?”
“It shore does,” replied Jeff.
“Is courage a matter of geography, then?” Tom inquired.
“I--I--pardner, you've got me there,” Jeff admitted, looking puzzled.
“Yet, somehow, I never looked for much courage in a fellow who hailed
from east of the Mississippi.”
George Ashby had been looking on during the last few moments, his eyes
glittering strangely. Yet, as he said nothing, the attention of the
others had turned from him.
Jeff Moore happened to turn just in time to see the muzzle of the
shotgun turned fully on Tom Reade's waist line, and Ashby's forefinger
resting on one of the triggers.
Bang! spoke the gun, a sheet of flame leaped forth.
Tom Reade did not even start. All his nerve had come to the surface in
that instant. He was unharmed, for Jeff's sweeping arm had knocked aside
the muzzle of the gun and the shot had entered the leg of one of the
raiders.
“What'd you do that for, Jeff?” groaned the injured man, sinking to the
alkali dust.
But Moore was busy with the mad hotel keeper, having clinched with him,
and now being engaged in taking away the shotgun, one barrel of which
was still loaded.
“Stand back there, friends,” warned Rafe Bodson, who still held his
revolver in his right hand. “We don't want to see any more of the party
hurt.”
Jeff had the gun in a moment, despite the insane fury with which Ashby
fought.
“Take care of this, Rafe,” requested Jeff, turning over the gun, which
Bodson received with his left hand.
Ashby, momentarily free, sprang at the new bolder of the weapon, but
Moore tripped him and fell upon him.
The other men stood by as though fascinated, not interfering. Perhaps
they felt that their safety depended upon Ashby's being disarmed.
There was a short, sharp scuffle on the ground after which Moore rose,
leaving the hotel man with his hands tied behind his back.
“And I request,” remarked Moore, “that no gentleman present cut the
knots that I have tied. It'll be a favor to me to have Ashby left alone
for the present.”
“Now, then, Rafe or Jeff,” spoke the gambler, mustering up what remained
of his courage, “since you two have taken charge of affairs, won't you
be good enough to inform us what your pleasure is?”
“We're not in charge,” retorted Bodson sullenly. “All we've undertaken
to do is to look out for the square deal that you promised, Duff, and
which you didn't exhibit in a way that we liked. As for the rest, go
ahead when you like--but don't do any more hitting with your fists.”
“We'll go ahead with the lariat, then?” hinted Duff eagerly.
“If that's the pleasure of the gentlemen,” Bodson agreed, bowing
slightly.
To the gambler it seemed the opportune moment to rush matters.
“Bring up lariats, two of you,” Duff ordered, turning around to the
others. “And don't waste time over it.”
The rawhide ropes were brought. The gambler himself tied the nooses,
testing them to see that they ran freely.
“Bring Reade and Hazelton under the trees,” was Duff's next order,
which was obeyed. Bodson and Moore, their weapons still in their hands,
followed, keeping keen watch over the way the affair was conducted.
“Any choice of trees Reade?” inquired Jin Duff.
“None,” answered Tom shortly. His face was pallid and set, though he did
not show any other sign of fear.
“Hazelton?”
“One tree is as good as another,” Harry answered in a strangely quiet
voice.
In the midst of an impressive silence, and with motions that seemed
oddly unreal to the tended victims, Duff placed the two young engineers.
A lariat was thrown over a low limb of each of the trees. Then, with
slightly trembling hands the gambler adjusted a over the neck of each
bound boy.