“You know better than that. You heard him riding me ragged. Well, he kept that up—maybe was a little rawer toward the last.”
“And you let him ride?”
“I did just that. I make my living out of cards, not out of picking fights.”
“There was no trouble over the table, then?”
“I didn’t say that. There was trouble. He made a break for his gun after I cleaned him.”
“And you?”
“I shaded him on the draw—took his gun—unloaded it—gave it back to him—told him to beat it. He went.”
“No shooting in here?”
“Not a shot.”
“And you didn’t see him again until after he had been killed?”
“That’s right.”
I got down from my perch on the table and walked over to Nisbet, holding out one hand.
“Let me look at your gun.”
He slid it swiftly out of his clothes—butt-first—into my hand. A .38 S. & W. , loaded in all six chambers.
“Don’t lose it,” I said as I handed it back to him, “I may want it later.”
A roar from Peery turned me around. As I turned I let my hands go into my coat pockets to rest on the .32 toys.