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If you want to bait Kit Foy, do it yourself or set your city police on him." "I will." A faint tinge of color came to the clear olive of Anastacio's cheek as he rose. "But don't promise my place to any of them, sheriff. I might hear of it." "Stranger," said Ben Creagan, "you can't play pool! I can't and I beat you four straight games. You better toddle your little trotters off to bed."
"I'm steerin' you right, old man," said Creagan. "You'd better drag it for bed." "I ain't sleepy, I tell you." Espalin leaped up, snarling. "Say! You lukeing for troubles, maybe? Bell, I theenk thees hombre got a gun. Shall we freesk him?" As he flung the query over his shoulder his beady little eyes did not leave Pringle's.
You haven't got out of the country yet." "That will be all from you, Sheriff. You, too, Creagan and Espalin. Not a word or I'll shoot. And I don't care how soon you begin to talk. That goes!" Espalin shriveled up; the sheriff and Creagan sat sullen and silent. Foy got to his feet rather unsteadily. "Chris, you might slip around and gather up their guns," said Pringle. "Pick out one for yourself.
You look like someone had spread you on the minutes." He eyed Creagan with solicitous interest. Mr. Creagan's battered face betrayed emotion. Pringle's shameless mendacity shocked him. But it was Creagan's sorry plight that he must affect never to have seen this insolent Pringle before. The sheriff's face mottled with wrath.
Foy's knee shot up to Applegate's stomach. Applegate fell, sprawling. Foy hurled himself on Creagan and bore him crashing to the floor. Foy whirled over; he rose on one hand and knee, gun drawn, visibly annoyed; also considerably astonished at the unexpected advent of Mr. Pringle. Applegate lay groaning on the floor.
He unlocked the door noisily; he opened it noisily; he took his sixshooter and belt from the wall quietly and closed the door, noisily again; he locked it from the outside. Then he did a curious thing; he sat down very gently and removed his boots. The four in the barroom listened, grinning. When they heard Pringle's door slam shut Bell Applegate nodded and Creagan went out on the street.
Espalin gathered that Pringle desired no outcry and shunned observation; he sat motionless accordingly; he felt a hand at his belt, which removed his gun. "Happy days!" said Foy, and raised his glass to his lips. Creagan seized the uplifted wrist with both hands, Applegate pounced on the other arm. Pringle leaped through the doorway. But something happened swifter than Pringle's swift rush.
What a charming reunion!" Applegate's eyes threw a startled question at his chief and at Creagan; Espalin slipped swiftly back through the door. "I don't know you, sir," said Applegate. "George! You're never going to disown me! Joe's gone, too. Nobody loves me!" The third man, a grizzled and bristly old warrior with a limp, broke in with a roar. "What in hell's going on here?" he stormed.
"I don't know who killed Dick Marr; but I do know that Creagan, Joe Espalin, and Applegate intended to kill me last night. They gave me back my sixshooter, that Ben Creagan had borrowed and it was loaded with blanks. Then they pitched onto me, and if it hadn't been for Pringle they'd have got me sure! We left town at eleven o'clock and rode straight to the Vorhis Ranch."
Anastacio Barela, the fourth and last inquisitor, maintained unmoved the disinterested attitude he had held since the interrogation began. Feet crossed, he lounged in his chair, graceful, silent, smoking, listening, idly observant of wall and ceiling. No answer being forthcoming to his query Pringle launched another: "Speaking of faces, Creagan, old sport, what's happened to you and your nose?
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