and waved it, slowly stepping to the street and then walking rapidly out of sight.
Skinny looked after him and smiled. "Larry, there 's a blamed fine youngster," he remarked, reflectively. "Well, he ought to be—he had th' best mother God ever put breath into." He thought for a moment and then went slowly towards the door. "I 've heard so much about Bradley's gun-play that I 'm some curious. Reckon I 'll see if it 's all true—" and he had leaped through the doorway, gun in hand. There was no shot, no sign of his enemy. A group of men lounged in the door of the "hash house" farther down the street, all friends of his, and he nodded to them. One of them turned quickly and looked down the intersecting street, saying something that made his companions turn and look with him. The man who had been standing quietly by the corner saloon had disappeared. Skinny smiling knowingly, moved closer to Quigg's shack so as to be better able to see around the indicated corner, and half drew
