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It would be more in his hand at this time if he thinks of Silver Phil. "Silver Phil, who's full of wrath at the taunts of the departed gyard, slips his hands free of the irons. Most of the hide on his wrists comes with 'em, but Silver Phil don't care. The gyard's back is to him as that gent sits gazin' out an' off along the dusty trail where it winds gray an' hot toward Tucson.
He rips it from the rack an' shows at the window as his prey comes runnin' to the rescoo of his pard: "'Oh, you! Virg Sanders! yells Silver Phil. "The second gyard looks up; an' as he does, Silver Phil gives him both bar'ls. Forty-two buckshot; an' that gyard's so clost he stops 'em all!
Silver Phil organises, stealthy an' cat-cautious; he's out for the gyard's gun as it hangs from his belt, the butt all temptin' an' su'gestive. "As Silver Phil makes his first move the laig-locks clanks. It ain't louder than the jingle of a brace of copper centouse knockin' together. It's enough, however; it strikes on the y'ear of that thoughtful gyard like the roar of a '44.
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