If you bother her--if anything happens to her--well,
you go and take a good long look at Durand before you make any
mistakes."
"You touch me an' I'll croak you. See!" hissed Collins. "It won't be
rough-house stuff with me. I'll fix youse so the gospel sharks'll sing
gather-at-the-river for you."
"A gun-play?" asked Clay pleasantly. "Say, there's a shootin'-gallery
round the corner. Come along. I wantta show you somethin'."
"Aw, go to hell!"
The sinewy hand moved again toward the aching muscles of the gunman.
Collins changed his mind hurriedly.
"All right. I'll come," he growled.
Clay tossed a dollar down on the counter, took a .32, and aimed at the
row of ducks sailing across the gallery pool. Each duck went down as
it appeared. He picked up a second rifle and knocked over seven or
eight mice as they scampered across the target screen. With a third
gun he snuffed the flaming eye from the right to the left side of the
face that grinned at him, then with another shot sent it back again.
He smashed a few clay pipes by way of variety. To finish off with he
scored six center shots in a target and rang a bell each time. Not one
single bullet had failed to reach its mark.
The New York gunman had never seen such speed and accuracy. He was
impressed in spite of the insolent sneer that still curled his lip.
"Got a six-shooter--a fohty-five?" asked Clay of the owner of the
gallery.
"No."
"Sorry. I'm not much with a rifle, but I'm a good average shot with a
six-gun.
Pages:
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192