Pringle sighed patiently at the rebuff and stole a timid glance at the
thinker. Espalin was a lean little, dried-up manikin, with legs,
arms, and mustaches disproportionately long for his dwarfish body. His
black, wiry hair hung in ragged witchlocks; his black pin-point eyes
were glittering, cold, and venomous. He looked, thought Pringle, very
much like a spider.

"I'm steerin' you right, old man," said Creagan. "You'd better drag it
for bed."

"I ain't sleepy, I tell you."

Espalin leaped up, snarling.

"Say! You lukeing for troubles, maybe? Bell, I theenk thees _hombre_
got a gun. Shall we freesk him?"

As he flung the query over his shoulder his beady little eyes did not
leave Pringle's.

Bell Applegate got leisurely to his feet--a tall man, well set up,
with a smooth-shaved, florid face and red hair.

"If he has we'll jack him in the jug." He threw back the lapel of his
coat, displaying a silver star.

"But I ain't got no gun," protested John Wesley meekly. "You-all can
see for yourself."

"We will--don't worry! Don't you make one wrong move or I'll put out