The two men holding him tightened their grip as Brannegan grasped Macleish’s collar and with one painful wrench broke his string tie and tore out his collar buttons. He slid a hand down the back of Macleish’s neck and scrabbled around as if he expected to find the weapon under the skin rather than on it.
“It ain’t here,” said Brannegan.
For a split second the gray-headed man’s eyes got round; then they slitted again and he took to wagging his head sadly, side to side. “You have surprised me,” he said to Macleish, “Mr. Bronzeau, you have indeed surprised me, and I concede that I never thought you would. I knew you would follow me here, and I knew you could be induced to come into this room; but I will allow that I never expected you to come unarmed. There is a difference, Mr. Bronzeau, between courage and foolhardiness. I think you will agree that you have passed it. Well then,” he barked in a business-like way, “we can settle our little matter all the better, then.”
He took a paper out of his breast pocket, unfolded it and put it on the desk. “Here, my young friend, is a transfer form, properly executed, lacking only your signature. Here,” he said, moving an inkwell and a feather pen next to the paper, “is something to—”
“Now you looky here,” said Younger Macleish, who had suddenly had enough and to spare, and was able to pull his startled witsback into shape. “I don’t know you or nothing about you or no paper. Now turn me loose!” he yelled at the two men at his sides, and gave a mighty wrench that ought to be enough to pull a horse off its feet—and wasn’t enough to break free of these two.
“Mis-ter Bronzeau!” cried the gray-headed man. He sounded aggrieved—astonished and hurt. “You interrupted me!” He turned to Brannegan, complaining: “Mister Brannegan, he interrupted me.”
Brannegan tsk-tsked like a deacon, settled his big ring just the way he wanted, and hit Macleish on the left cheek-bone with it. Then he stepped back and smiled. He said, “You hadn’t ought to interrupt, sonny.”
The craze-frightened youth snickered. The beer-smelling man brayed. The gray-headed man waited until it was quiet again except for Macleish’s heavy breathing. The blood began running from the place the ring had hit.
“First I talk,” the gray-headed man explained patiently, “and then you talk, and that’s the way gentlemen conduct business. Now then—where were we? Here is a paper, and here is the pen you are going to use to sign it with, and here is something”—he put out a short-handled, long-bladed knife, picked up the matchstick he had used to light the lamp, and delicately split it in two—“we can use to keep this conversation going if we have to; and here,” he said as he put the knife down exactly parallel with the pen and opened the desk drawer, “is a little something for dessert, you might say,” and next to the knife he put down a nickel-plated, four-barrel gambler’s gun. “Just a toy, really, and guaranteed not to hit what you aim at unless,” he added, picking up the gun and pointing it playfully at Macleish’s belt-buckle, “you’ve got some way of holding the target still.” He laughed genteelly; Brannegan haw-hawed; and late, the youth tittered and the beery man brayed. “Now then,” said the gray-headed man, “Mr. Bronzeau had something to say. Go ahead, Mr. Bronzeau.”
Younger Macleish looked from one to the other of them and concluded that they were waiting for him to speak. He said, “My name ain’t Bronzeau or whatever it was you said. I just rode in an’ I’m goin’ to ride out in the morning and you got yourselves the wrong man.”
“Ah,” said the gray-headed man tiredly, “come off it, Bronzeau. We know you. Don’t make this take any longer than it has to.”
“It’s the truth all the same,” said Younger Macleish.
“All right, all right; I’ll hear it out. Where is it you pretend to be coming from, and
“It ain’t here,” said Brannegan.
For a split second the gray-headed man’s eyes got round; then they slitted again and he took to wagging his head sadly, side to side. “You have surprised me,” he said to Macleish, “Mr. Bronzeau, you have indeed surprised me, and I concede that I never thought you would. I knew you would follow me here, and I knew you could be induced to come into this room; but I will allow that I never expected you to come unarmed. There is a difference, Mr. Bronzeau, between courage and foolhardiness. I think you will agree that you have passed it. Well then,” he barked in a business-like way, “we can settle our little matter all the better, then.”
He took a paper out of his breast pocket, unfolded it and put it on the desk. “Here, my young friend, is a transfer form, properly executed, lacking only your signature. Here,” he said, moving an inkwell and a feather pen next to the paper, “is something to—”
“Now you looky here,” said Younger Macleish, who had suddenly had enough and to spare, and was able to pull his startled witsback into shape. “I don’t know you or nothing about you or no paper. Now turn me loose!” he yelled at the two men at his sides, and gave a mighty wrench that ought to be enough to pull a horse off its feet—and wasn’t enough to break free of these two.
“Mis-ter Bronzeau!” cried the gray-headed man. He sounded aggrieved—astonished and hurt. “You interrupted me!” He turned to Brannegan, complaining: “Mister Brannegan, he interrupted me.”
Brannegan tsk-tsked like a deacon, settled his big ring just the way he wanted, and hit Macleish on the left cheek-bone with it. Then he stepped back and smiled. He said, “You hadn’t ought to interrupt, sonny.”
The craze-frightened youth snickered. The beer-smelling man brayed. The gray-headed man waited until it was quiet again except for Macleish’s heavy breathing. The blood began running from the place the ring had hit.
“First I talk,” the gray-headed man explained patiently, “and then you talk, and that’s the way gentlemen conduct business. Now then—where were we? Here is a paper, and here is the pen you are going to use to sign it with, and here is something”—he put out a short-handled, long-bladed knife, picked up the matchstick he had used to light the lamp, and delicately split it in two—“we can use to keep this conversation going if we have to; and here,” he said as he put the knife down exactly parallel with the pen and opened the desk drawer, “is a little something for dessert, you might say,” and next to the knife he put down a nickel-plated, four-barrel gambler’s gun. “Just a toy, really, and guaranteed not to hit what you aim at unless,” he added, picking up the gun and pointing it playfully at Macleish’s belt-buckle, “you’ve got some way of holding the target still.” He laughed genteelly; Brannegan haw-hawed; and late, the youth tittered and the beery man brayed. “Now then,” said the gray-headed man, “Mr. Bronzeau had something to say. Go ahead, Mr. Bronzeau.”
Younger Macleish looked from one to the other of them and concluded that they were waiting for him to speak. He said, “My name ain’t Bronzeau or whatever it was you said. I just rode in an’ I’m goin’ to ride out in the morning and you got yourselves the wrong man.”
“Ah,” said the gray-headed man tiredly, “come off it, Bronzeau. We know you. Don’t make this take any longer than it has to.”
“It’s the truth all the same,” said Younger Macleish.
“All right, all right; I’ll hear it out. Where is it you pretend to be coming from, and
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