CHAPTER 15
Gainor’s dignity split the force of their rush. They recoiled as water
strikes on a rock and divides into two meager swirls. And when one or two
went past him on either side, he recalled them.
“Boys, there seems to be a little game on hand. What is it?”
Something repelling, coldly inquiring in his attitude and in his voice.
They would have gone on if they could, but they could not. He held them
with a force of knowledge of things that they did not know. They were
remembering that this man had gone out with the sheriff to meet,
apparently, his death. And yet Gainor, a well-tried friend of the
sheriff, seemed unexcited. They had to answer his question, and how could
they lie when he saw them rushing through a door with revolvers coming to
brown, skillful hands? It was
