The Man from Bar-20
had become, and tears of rage streaked the dust on his face. At Johnny's last command and the kick which accompanied it, his good sense and all thought of safety left him. He arose with a spring, a berserker, trembling with rage, and reached for his gun with convulsive speed while looking into his enemy's weapon with unseeing eyes. There was a flash, a roar, and a cloud of smoke at Johnny's hip, and a glittering six-shooter sprang into the air, spinning rapidly. Ackerman did not feel the shock which numbed his hand, but leaped forward straight at his enemy's throat. Johnny swerved quickly and his right hand swung up in a short, vicious arc. Ackerman, too crazed to avoid it, took the blow on the point of his jaw and dropped like a stone.
Johnny stepped back and looked evilly at the man on the horse.
"Gimme yore gun, butt first. Thanks. You work for Quigley?"
The other nodded slowly.
"Friend of this hombre?"
"Yes; sort of."
"Then why didn't you cut in?"
"Why, I—I—" the other hesitated, and stopped.
"Spit it!"
"Well, I wasn't supposed to," coldly replied the horseman.
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