as that gent sits gazin' out an' off along the dusty trail where it
winds gray an' hot toward Tucson. 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. He emerges from his reverie
with a start; the play comes cl'ar as noonday to him in a moment.

"The gyard leaps, without even lookin' 'round, to free himse'f from the
clutch of Silver Phil. Which he's the splinter of a second too late.
Silver Phil makes a spring like a mountain lion, laig-locks an' all,
an' grabs the gun. As the gyard goes clatterin' down sta'rs. Silver
Phil pumps two loads into him an' curls him up at the foot. Then
Silver Phil hurls the six-shooter at him with a volley of mal'dictions.

"Without pausin' a moment, Silver Phil grabs the stool an' smashes to
flinders the locker that holds the 10-gauge Greener. He ain't forgot
none; an' he's fair locoed to get that partic'lar weepon for the other
gyard. 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! As he lays dead, Silver Phil breaks the Greener in two, an'
throws, one after the other, stock an' bar'l at him.