Huh, Mig?"
Miguel cast a slow, humorous glance over the four. "Ye-es--
they'll have us treed in about two minutes if we don't," he
assented. "Go ahead."
"Well," Andy lifted his head and shoulders that he might readjust
a pillow to his liking, "we wanted him to make a getaway. Fact
is, if he hadn't, we'd have been--strictly up against it. Right!
If he hadn't--how about it, Mig? I guess we'd have been to the
Little Rockies ourselves."
"You've got a sweet little voice," Irish cut in savagely, "but
we're tired. We'd rather hear yuh say something!"
"Oh--all right. Well, Mig and I just ribbed up a josh on Dunk.
I'd read somewhere about the same kinda deal, so it ain't
original; I don't lay any claim to the idea at all; we just
borrowed it. You see, it's like this: We figured that a man as
mean as this Dunk person most likely had stepped over the line,
somewhere. So we just took a gambling chance, and let him do the
rest. You see, we never saw him before in our lives. All that
identification stunt of ours was just a bluff. But the minute I
shoved my chips to the center, I knew we had him dead to rights.
You were there. You saw him wilt. By gracious--"
"Yuh don't know anything against him?" gasped Irish.
"Not a darned thing--any more than what you all know," testified
Andy complacently.
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