"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.
"We'll try to take care of him. But he'll come the other way, I guess."
But Slike guessed wrong, for Billy Wingo, judging that the
psychological moment had arrived, shoved his gun hand through a window
pane and shouted, "Hands up!"
"You dirty Judas!" yelled Slike and, firing from the hip, he whipped
three shots into the judge before he himself fell with four of Billy
Wingo's bullets through his shoulder and neck.
Shot through and through, Judge Driver dropped in a huddle and died.
Slike, supporting himself on an elbow, mouthed curses at the man who he
believed had betrayed him. The murderer's supporting arm slid out from
under and he collapsed in a dead faint, even as Billy Wingo, with
window glass cascading from his head and shoulders, sprang into the
room.