The Mexicans
jumped as if stung by a scorpion, and could just discern two of the
rowdy gringo cow-punchers in the heavy shadows of the opposite wall, but
the candle light glinted in rings on the muzzles of their six-shooters.
Had Manuel betrayed them? But they had little time or inclination for
cogitation regarding Manuel.
"Easy there!" shouted Red, and Pedro's hand stopped when half way to his
chest. Pedro was a gambler by nature, but the odds were too heavy and he
sullenly obeyed the command.
"Stick 'em up! Stick 'em up! Higher yet, an' hold 'em there," purred
a soft voice from the other end of the room, where Dick Martin smiled
pleasantly upon them and wondered if there was anything on earth harder
to pound good common sense into than a "Greaser's" head. His gun was
blue, but it was, nevertheless, the most prominent part of his make-up,
even if the light was poor.
One of the Mexicans reached involuntarily for his gun, for he was a
gun-man by training; while his companions felt for their knives, deadly
weapons in a melee. Martin, crying, "Watch 'em, Cassidy!" side-stepped
and lunged forward with the speed and skill of a boxer, and his hard
left hand landed on the point of Juan Alvarez' jaw with a force and
precision not to be withstood. But to make more certain that the
Mexican would not take part in any possible demonstration of resistance,
Martin's right circled up in a short half-hook and stopped against
Juan's short ribs.
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