"Hullo!" the fellow shouted. "What's up? Did you think this was
Christmas Eve? Hey, there--Mendez; Cateras."
The little marshal straightened up, and took a step forward; the light
from the cabin window glistened wickedly on the blue steel of his gun
barrel.
"Hands up, Bill!" he said quietly, in a voice carrying conviction.
"None of that--don't play with me. Take your left hand an' unbuckle
your belt--I said the left. Now drop it into the dirt."
"Who the hell are you?"
"That doesn't make much difference, does it, as long as I've got the
drop?" asked the other genially. "But, if you must know to be
happy--I'm the marshal o' Haskell. Go easy, boy; you've seen me shoot
afore this, an' I was born back in Texas with a weapon in each hand.
Climb down off'n that hoss."
Lacy did so, his hands above his head, cursing angrily.
"What kind of a low-down trick is this, Brennan?" he snapped, glaring
through the darkness at the face of his captor. "What's become of
Pasqual Mendez? Ain't his outfit yere?"
"His outfit's here all right, dead an' alive," and Brennan chuckled
cheerfully, "but not being no gospel sharp I can't just say whar ol'
Mendez is.
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