"That's the stuff, Chink," said Hollister, disposed for the moment to be patronizing. "For a lady. I'll give it to Juanita for a make-up present. You—you hully up," he jested, with a hiccough.
The Chinaman's hand came out of the open bag. He straightened swiftly as the rise of a snake's neck and his face had changed to malevolence incarnate. It was not the rage of terror; the jet eyes were blazing, the jaw firmly set and the hand that now held a blunt automatic gun was far steadier than Hollister's.
"Hi-yah," he shouted. It was not a yell, not loud, yet it was a war-cry, defiant, determined, the slogan of a pirate brood. He fired twice. The gun jerked and the first bullet went wild, but the second struck Hollister's frenzied mount high in the flank. Hollister's mouth was open with surprise as he started to return the fire. He had slid his gun back to the holster as he had leaned forward to examine the expected brocade. The broncho bucked high and hard, squealing with pain and fright and Hollister, none too firm in his seat, shot off in a parabola, sprawling in the fine dust of the road as his pistol fell on the platform and the pony went bucking away towards Metzal.
The agent peered through the grimy panes of his office, the two men who had come with Hollister rocked with laughter and the bully rose discomfited, his face smeared with dust and blood from his nose and cut lip.
"Give me a gun, damn you! " he shouted. "Catch my hawss, one of you!" He started back towards
