battlers, who instantly stopped fighting.
Slade walked forward, his face stern, till he reached the man whose gun he had shot from his hand and who had straightened up and was cursing and wringing his dripping fingers.
“Fellow,” Slade told him, “if you’d gotten away with it, that would have been very much like murder. The other man isn’t armed, so far as I can see.”
Before the other could reply, Wade Ballard’s smooth voice echoed Slade’s. “He’s right, Persinger,” he told the oil worker. “If it wasn’t for him, right now you’d be in serious trouble. I think you’d better thank him, even if you did lose a little meat off your hand.”
Persinger didn’t look grateful as he glared at Slade, but apparently thought it best not to argue the point. He mumbled something unintelligible. Then Blaine Richardson’s big hand fell on his shoulder.
“You’re always going off half-cocked, you blasted churn-head,” Richardson rumbled. “What’s the matter with you fellers, anyhow?”
“And what’s the matter with you, Ayers?” Bob Kent broke in. “I’d thought you’d have better sense.”
Ayers scowled at his erstwhile opponent. “That danged grease monkey was talking out of turn, that’s all,” he growled.
“About what?” demanded Kent.
“About you eating with a couple of cowmen,” Ayers replied. “I figured it wasn’t any of his business and told him so. He called me a name I don’t take from nobody.”
Kent turned to Slade who had holstered his guns. The Hawk’s eyes were dancing with laughter. Despite the grim role he himself had very nearly played, he saw a humorous angle in the final outcome of the devilish scheme. He pictured the utter bewilderment enveloping Nate Persinger’s mind as he tried to figure out how the carefully planned attempt had missed fire. It was good as a play!
“Everybody’s loco,” Bob Kent disgustedly declared.
Wade Ballard took charge of the situation. “All right, you fellers, straighten up the tables and chairs and try and behave yourselves for a change,” he told the battered warriors. “Come on to the back room, Persinger, and I’ll bandage your hand.”
The fighters, looking a bit sheepish, cleaned up the mess they’d made and sat down. Persinger, with a scowl at Slade, picked up his smashed gun, jammed it savagely in its holster and followed Ballard. Slade and Kent went back to their interrupted meal. Curly Nevins stared at Slade and shook his head.
“That was shooting!” he remarked. “I never saw you pull that iron. One second it was leathered and the next it wasn’t, and you pilled trigger right as it cleared. Slade, is there anything you ain’t tops at?”
Slade chuckled and ordered more coffee.
Bill Ayers, the driller, came over to the table. “Much obliged, feller,” he said to Slade. “I reckon you saved me from getting an airhole in my hide.”
“You’re darn right he did,” said Kent. “There’s room at the next table now. Suppose you boys come over here for the rest of the evening; I don’t want any more trouble.”
Ayers agreed and he and his companions occupied a table some distance from the Richardson group. Nate Persinger reappeared, his hand bandaged, Blaine Richardson accompanying him. Richardson sat down with his men, apparently to keep an eye on them. The Black Gold, which had been rather subdued for a few minutes, quickly regained its former fair imitation of bedlam.
Kent and Nevins animatedly discussed the recent events, but Slade sat silent, occupied with his own thoughts. What was back of it all, he wondered. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind but that the slug had been intended for him. The whole thing had been elaborately planned with attention to the smallest details. Start a row with Kent’s drillers — it was common knowledge that there was bad blood between the two outfits — and under cover of the rukus pull off a nice cold-blooded murder which on the surface would have
Slade walked forward, his face stern, till he reached the man whose gun he had shot from his hand and who had straightened up and was cursing and wringing his dripping fingers.
“Fellow,” Slade told him, “if you’d gotten away with it, that would have been very much like murder. The other man isn’t armed, so far as I can see.”
Before the other could reply, Wade Ballard’s smooth voice echoed Slade’s. “He’s right, Persinger,” he told the oil worker. “If it wasn’t for him, right now you’d be in serious trouble. I think you’d better thank him, even if you did lose a little meat off your hand.”
Persinger didn’t look grateful as he glared at Slade, but apparently thought it best not to argue the point. He mumbled something unintelligible. Then Blaine Richardson’s big hand fell on his shoulder.
“You’re always going off half-cocked, you blasted churn-head,” Richardson rumbled. “What’s the matter with you fellers, anyhow?”
“And what’s the matter with you, Ayers?” Bob Kent broke in. “I’d thought you’d have better sense.”
Ayers scowled at his erstwhile opponent. “That danged grease monkey was talking out of turn, that’s all,” he growled.
“About what?” demanded Kent.
“About you eating with a couple of cowmen,” Ayers replied. “I figured it wasn’t any of his business and told him so. He called me a name I don’t take from nobody.”
Kent turned to Slade who had holstered his guns. The Hawk’s eyes were dancing with laughter. Despite the grim role he himself had very nearly played, he saw a humorous angle in the final outcome of the devilish scheme. He pictured the utter bewilderment enveloping Nate Persinger’s mind as he tried to figure out how the carefully planned attempt had missed fire. It was good as a play!
“Everybody’s loco,” Bob Kent disgustedly declared.
Wade Ballard took charge of the situation. “All right, you fellers, straighten up the tables and chairs and try and behave yourselves for a change,” he told the battered warriors. “Come on to the back room, Persinger, and I’ll bandage your hand.”
The fighters, looking a bit sheepish, cleaned up the mess they’d made and sat down. Persinger, with a scowl at Slade, picked up his smashed gun, jammed it savagely in its holster and followed Ballard. Slade and Kent went back to their interrupted meal. Curly Nevins stared at Slade and shook his head.
“That was shooting!” he remarked. “I never saw you pull that iron. One second it was leathered and the next it wasn’t, and you pilled trigger right as it cleared. Slade, is there anything you ain’t tops at?”
Slade chuckled and ordered more coffee.
Bill Ayers, the driller, came over to the table. “Much obliged, feller,” he said to Slade. “I reckon you saved me from getting an airhole in my hide.”
“You’re darn right he did,” said Kent. “There’s room at the next table now. Suppose you boys come over here for the rest of the evening; I don’t want any more trouble.”
Ayers agreed and he and his companions occupied a table some distance from the Richardson group. Nate Persinger reappeared, his hand bandaged, Blaine Richardson accompanying him. Richardson sat down with his men, apparently to keep an eye on them. The Black Gold, which had been rather subdued for a few minutes, quickly regained its former fair imitation of bedlam.
Kent and Nevins animatedly discussed the recent events, but Slade sat silent, occupied with his own thoughts. What was back of it all, he wondered. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind but that the slug had been intended for him. The whole thing had been elaborately planned with attention to the smallest details. Start a row with Kent’s drillers — it was common knowledge that there was bad blood between the two outfits — and under cover of the rukus pull off a nice cold-blooded murder which on the surface would have
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