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Fannin' a gun is show stuff, but it's wicked, at close range." Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. When he got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring at what seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon. "Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimed Cheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with."
Incidentally he had borrowed a Luger automatic from the miscellaneous collection of weapons taken from criminals, assured himself that it was not loaded, and slipped it into his coat-pocket.
If the sheriff of Sanborn was an old-timer he would know that a man who packed a gun for business reasons did not go round the country experimenting with different makes and calibers. Only the "showcase" boys in the towns swapped guns. Ed Brevoort had always used a Luger. Pete wondered if there had been any evidence of the caliber of the bullet which had killed Brent.
The remaining wounded men occupied a large, semi-private ward lower down the corridor. Of these last Hardy's case was by far the most serious. He had been shot through the body; the high-pressure Luger bullet luckily missing any vital organ. McCullough had been drilled through the calf of his left leg, Davis through the arm, and Belt had had the knuckles stripped from his right hand.
"Well, I have a Colt .38-special," he said, "but you know, I belong to this Auxiliary Police outfit. If I were called out for duty, this evening, I'd need it. How soon could you bring it back?" Something clicked in Allan Hartley's mind. He remembered, now, what that incident had been. He knew, too, what he had to do. "Dad, aren't there some cartridges left for the Luger?" he asked.
I never used to pack the Luger around afterwards, well! . . . for obvious reasons. You'll probably find the Savage in the cellar at my place that's if it isn't buried, like I nearly was." There was a long silence, broken only by the scratch, scratch, of the inspector's pen, as he rapidly indited a formal statement for the prisoner to sign.
Blake Hartley snapped his fingers. "By George, yes! I have a German automatic I can let you have, but I wish you'd bring it back as soon as possible. I'll get it for you." Before he could rise, Allan was on his feet. "Sit still, Dad; I'll get it. I know where the cartridges are." With that, he darted into the house and upstairs. The Luger hung on the wall over his father's bed.
A drive was made, and the bear was actually caught within a few rods of old Mr. Calhoun's stable. His teeth were worn to the gums, and, as he could no longer kill hogs, he had come down to an apple diet. He was large-framed, but very poor. The only hunters on the spot were Granville, with the .30-30, and a northern lumberman named Hastings, with a Luger carbine.
I asked him what he had that deputy marshal's badge on his shirt and that Luger on his hip for, but he said he had orders not to use force, for fear of prejudicing the mediators." Melroy swore disgustedly. "All right. Gather up all our private papers, and get Steve and Joe, and come on out. We only work here when we're able."
And then he was, no doubt, in far better condition. At all events the fellow was presently at his mercy, in a hold that gave one the privilege of breaking his back at will. A man of mistaken scruples, Duchemin failed to do so, but held the other helpless only long enough to find his hip-pocket and rip out the pistol a deadly Luger.
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