"
"Well," Quest decided, "I'm going in and I'm going in unarmed. You can
bring your men in later, if I call for help or if you hear any shooting."
"You're asking for trouble," the Sheriff warned him.
"I've got to do this my own way," Quest insisted. "Stand by now."
He pushed open the door of the saloon. There were a dozen men drinking
around the bar and in the centre of them Red Gallagher and his mate. They
seemed to be all shouting together, and the air was thick with tobacco
smoke. Quest walked right up to the two men.
"Gallagher," he said, "you're my prisoner. Are you coming quietly?"
Gallagher's mate, who was half drunk, swung round and fired a wild shot in
Quest's direction. The result was a general stampede. Red Gallagher alone
remained motionless. Grim and dangerously silent, he held a pistol within
a few inches of Quest's forehead.
"If my number's up," he exclaimed ferociously, "it won't be you who'll
take me."
"I think it will," Quest answered. "Put that gun away."
Gallagher hesitated. Quest's influence over him was indomitable.
"Put it away," Quest repeated firmly. "You know you daren't use it. Your
account's pretty full up, as it is."
Gallagher's hand wavered. From outside came the shouts of the Sheriff and
his men, struggling to fight their way in through the little crowd who
were rushing for safety. Suddenly Quest backed, jerked the pistol up with
his right elbow, and with almost the same movement struck Red Gallagher
under the jaw.
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