Under his great
moustache his lips were as puffed and swollen as the lips of a negro.
Staggering in his haste, he whirled a few paces from the house and
turned, his guns levelled. At the same moment the door opened and the
perspiring figure of little fat Flanders appeared. Scorn and anger
rather than hate or any bloodlust appeared in his face. His right arm,
hanging loosely at his side, held a revolver, and he seemed to have the
greatest unconcern for the levelled weapons of the gunman.
He made a gesture with that armed hand, and Sandy winced as though a
whiplash had flicked him.
"Steady up, damn your eyes!" bellowed Flanders, "and put them guns away.
Put 'em up; hear me?"
To the mortal astonishment of Nash, Sandy obeyed, keeping the while a
fascinated eye upon the little Dutchman.
"Now climb your hoss and beat it, and if I ever find you in reach again,
I'll send my kid out to rope you and give you a hoss-whippin'."
The gun fighter lost no time. A single leap carried him into his saddle
and he was off over the sand with a sharp rattle of the beating hoofs.
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