THAT DRIFTER IS DOOMED
“He’s scairt stiff,” George Haller jeered. “He’s just talkin’ sass to hide how scairt he is.”
“I ain’t no kinda hero,” the stranger assured him, “but I ain’t scairt neither.”
Dave Jones laughed at that and then helped himself to the coil of rope from Mike Haller’s saddle horn.
“Well, boy,” he said mildly, “you should be scairt . . . if you got any sense at all.”
The stranger frowned at the noose, blinked nervously at the circle of unforgiving faces.
“Young feller,” muttered Mayor Fitzgerald, “if you got somethin’ to say, you better explain yourself right now.”
“You got a name, boy?” Jones inquired. “We might as well know who we’re hangin’.”