Those who heard glanced to one another with thoughtful
eyes. They were thinking of Nash, and thinking of him with sympathy.
Little Duffy, squat and thick-set, felt inspiration descend on him. He
turned to Bard on his left.
"That ain't a full-size forty-five, is it--that one you're packin'?"
"Doesn't it look it?" answered Bard.
"Nope. Holster seems pretty small to me."
"It's the usual gun, I'm sure," said Bard, and pulled the weapon from
the leather.
Holding the butt loosely, his trigger finger hooked clear around the far
side of the guard, he showed the gun.
"I was wrong," nodded Duffy unabashed, "that's the regular kind. Let's
have a look at it."
And he stretched out his hand. No one would ever have guessed how
closely the table followed what now happened, for each man began talking
in a voice even louder than before. It was as if they sought to cover
the stratagem of Duffy with their noise.
"There's nothing unusual about the gun," said Bard, "but I'd be glad to
let you have it except that I've formed a habit of never letting a
six-shooter get away from me.
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