A sidewinder’s bullet brought
everybody down to the same size!
CALL FOR A GUN
“We’re not selling the Box C, Mr. Rankin,” Helen said, white-faced. “And we’ll never sell.”
“My, but we’re tetchy today, ain’t we?” Rankin observed lazily. “Wonder why? It wouldn’t be on account you feel you got a stronger hand than the last time we talked, would it, Corey?”
Corey’s face twisted in puzzlement.
“What do you mean by that?”
“The stranger, Corey. Maclaine.”
Corey sighed gustily.
“Not you, too? Seems everybody I meet is jawin’ about this Maclaine feller . . . and I don’t know anythin’ about him.”
Rankin’s mood changed abruptly. Leaning forward, he spat, “That better be the truth, Corey. That’s the second thing Mr. Moore ain’t happy about. If you got ideas of hirin’ a gun, forget ’em. And Mr. Moore said to tell you that you got a week to sell out. If you don’t, we’re gonna burn you to the ground. And don’t think for one minute we’re bluffin’, ’cause we ain’t. We’re through bluffin’. This is your last warnin’. Next time guns will do our talkin’.”