gymnastics, a habit of his argumentative mood, perhaps, which was a burning irritant to Jim Justice's already inflamed humor.
"If a man ain't got the money to set in at my table I don't want him sleepin' in my sheets," Jim blustered, intent on coming to a rupture with this unwelcome guest at any odds, it appeared. "Let any man I boot out of this hotel go and try to git a bed anywhere else in town, and see where he lands!"
Whether Andrew Hall appreciated the tragedy of such a situation, Justice was not to know at that time. Before the guest could have uttered any comment, if he had intended to do so, a sudden burst of shooting, attended by yells and a rush of galloping horses in the street directly in front of the hotel, broke the sunset peace of the town.
This noisy demonstration sweeping past his door seemed to strike Jim Justice witha tremendous fear. He turned from peering through the dusty window at the end of his counter, the red embers of anger dying in his fat cheeks as if doused by a sudden rain. He grabbed a canvas bag that lay with its mouth dangling from a little compartment of his open safe, his eyes bulging, his erect gray hair charged with the prickling shock of his fright.
"Git in there!" he directed, waving toward the open door that revealed the dining-room and interior of the house. "It's that Simrall gang!"
As he delivered this warning Justice stooped behind the counter and disappeared. Hall supposed he was reaching for his gun. He waited for Justice to reappear armed to defend his property and life against a raid of outlaws, greatly astonished and mystified when he did not come up
