the platform but the Chmaman faced him indomitably, his gun raised, his arm crooked, hand upwards. Hollister stopped, wiped away the blood with his bandana, spat out more of it. He looked for his gun in the road and then saw it in the Chinaman's other hand, hung at his side.
"Wait," he cried, his voice bullying but his eyes doubtful, the suggestion of a cringe in his attitude. "I'll crucify you before I'm through with you." And he started to run at a zigzag towards his companions, who had captured his pony and were holding it for him, still roaring at what they regarded as the primest joke that had struck Metzal. Hollister pleaded with them for a gun but they refused him with jeers and he spurred up his horse and streaked towards town in a cloud of dust, passing on his way the returning Jackson and his comrade, who stopped to inquire the cause of the rumpus, retailed them by the pair, who slapped their thighs and doubled themselves in mirth before they followed Hollister.
Sheridan came loping up on the mare. He had only heard the last two shots; the noise of the shunting and coupling had drowned the rest. The agent was out on the platform, the Chinaman was calmly closing his grip. He had put Hollister's gun inside it and laid his own on the seat. Evidently he expected more trouble but he looked quietly at Sheridan as the latter questioned the agent. Jackson and the other cowboy dismounted and came up on the platform to join the group.
"Hollister tries to make him dance," said the agent. "After he fires clean through the wall into
