At their head was the chunky little man with the gray hair—Bill White.
“You’re Bob Lake,” he said bluntly, pointing a stubby forefinger at Lake. “You’re Bob Lake, alias what?”
“Alias nothing,” returned Bob with equal bluntness. “What in thunder are you doing in my room?” As he spoke, he removed the cartridge belt from the hook on the wall and shook the g*n out of the holster.
“None of that,” returned the sheriff.
But Bob Lake had forgotten reasonable caution. That mad mood was on him which had made his best friends prophesy that sooner or later he would fall afoul of the law. “Step high, partner,” he said to the sheriff warningly, “Step light. It looks to me like I got the drop on you gents, and I’m going to keep it. Hands away from guns, if you please.”
They had entered so full of th
