Sanderson's lips twitched with contempt. His own smile matched Dale's
in the quality of its hostility.
Sanderson was about to pass on when someone struck him heavily between
the shoulders. He staggered and lurched against the rough board front
of the building going almost to his knees.
When he could steady himself he wheeled, his hand at his hip. Standing
near him, grinning maliciously, was the man with whom he had collided.
In the man's right hand was a pistol.
"Bump into me, will you--you locoed shorthorn!" sneered the man as
Sanderson turned. He cursed profanely, incoherently. But he did not
shoot.
The weapon in his hand began to sag curiously, the fingers holding it
slowly slipping from the stock. And the man's face--thin and
seamed--became chalklike beneath the tan upon it. His eyes, furtive
and wolfish, bulged with astonishment and recognition, and his mouth
opened vacuously.
"Deal Sanderson!" he said, weakly. "Good Lord! I didn't git a good
look at yon! I'm in the wrong pew, Deal, an' I sure don't want none of
your game!"
"Dal Colton," said Sanderson.
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