But he said not a word.
The meal proceeded in silence except for jeers and taunts of the
"King." For nobody cared to venture conversation which might
prove a match to a powder magazine. Whatever thoughts might be
each man kept them to himself.
"Coffee," snapped the single talker, toward end of breakfast.
Hughie jumped up, filled the cup that was handed him and set the
coffee pot back on fire. As he handed the tin cup with the coffee
to the outlaw the lad's foot slipped on a piece wet wood, and the
hot liquid splashed over his chief's leg. The man jumped to his
feet in a rage and struck the boy across the face with his whip
once, and then again.
"By God, that'll do for you!" cried Chalkeye from the other side
of the fire, springing revolver in hand. "Draw, you coyote! I
come a-shooting."
The "King" wheeled, finding his weapon he turned. Two shots rang
out almost simultaneously, and Chalkeye pitched forward. The
outlaw chief sank to his knees, and, with one hand resting on the
ground to steady himself fired two more shots into the twitching
body on the other side of the fire. Then he, too, lurched forward
and rolled over.
It had come to climax so swiftly that not one of them had moved
except the combatants.
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