"You've only got yourself to blame," said Felix Craft, studying the gun
on the table so handy to his fingers.
"True," acquiesced Billy. "I've only got myself to blame. So what
care I for poverty or precious stones? Look here, fellow citizens, who
is going to take my part in this stage hold-up?"
"I will," said Craft modestly. "I rode your pinto out of town last
night, and I think I made a good impression. Yeah, I'm sure I did.
And I have more than a sneaking idea I can get away with the hold-up."
"Don't doubt it," said Billy. "Don't doubt it for a minute. You've
got nerve enough, I know that, and we're about of a size. I--uh--I
_thought_ there was something familiar about that vest you're wearing.
And are those my other pants you have on? The table hides 'em so I
can't tell for sure."
"They are your other pants, and your coat and hat are hanging on a hook
in the kitchen. I had to put your spurs on my boots though. Yours
were too small."
"Oh, I'm sorry," mourned Billy, genuine concern in his tone. "If I'd
only known-- However, suppose some one in the stage puts a hole in
your face right over the eye, Felix. Have you thought of that?"