A shotgun is what you want. Blow the head off any man who
doesn't stop when you tell him to. Is Tom Cutter in his room yet?"
While Struve, wasting neither time nor words, went to see, Norton
unbuttoned his shirt, removed the thirty-eight-caliber revolver from
the holster slung under his left arm, whirled the cylinder, and kept
the gun in his left hand. In a moment Struve had returned, the deputy
at his heels.
"What's this about Vidal being here?" Cutter asked sharply.
Norton explained briefly and as briefly gave Tom Cutter his orders.
While Struve mounted guard at the rear, Cutter was to look out for the
front of the building.
"Going in alone, are you, Rod?" Cutter shook his head. "If Vidal is
in there, and Galloway and the Kid and Antone are all on the job, the
chances are there's going to be something happen. Better let me come
in along with you."
But Norton, his mouth grown set and grim and chary of words, shook his
head. Followed by Struve and Cutter he was outside in the darkness
five minutes after he had entered the hotel.
Struve, a shotgun in his hands, took his place twenty steps from the
back door of the Casa Blanca, his restless eyes sweeping back and forth
continually, taking stock of door and window; a lamp burning in a rear
room cast its light out through a window whose shade was less than half
drawn.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150