ed liar. Git! Take yore stuff
with you or send back fo' it. Now, git off this property."

If a man can make movements with his hands so swiftly that they are
covered in less than a tenth of a second, ordinary human sight can not
register them. He has achieved the magician's slogan--_the quickness of
the hand deceives the eye_. It takes natural aptitude and long practise,
whether one is juggling gilded balls or blued-steel revolvers. Sandy
could, with a circling movement of his wrists, draw his guns from their
holsters and bring them to bear directly upon the target to which his
eyes shifted. Glance, twist of wrist, arrest of motion, pressure of
finger, all coordinated. One moment his hands were empty, his glance
carelessly contemptuous, the veriest movement of a split-second
stop-watch and the gun in his right hand spat fire, the gun in his left
swung in an arc that menaced the five card players.

The other two were struggling beneath the crumpled folds of a collapsed
tent, wriggling frantically like the stage hands who simulate waves by
crawling beneath painted canvas. Sandy had shattered the pegs that held
up the upper corners of the tent on the slope, had cut the cords of the
remaining guys on that side and the structure had swayed and collapsed.

Sam and Mormon had lined up now with Sandy. There was no mistaking their
intention to use their guns. But the exhibition had been quite
sufficient. With one accord the five raised their hands shoulder high
and began to shuffle down the hill, regardless of their equipment,
which, having been paid for by Plimsoll, they regarded as of much less
value than the necessity for departure.

"Come out of that," commanded Sandy to the two wrigglers. "Git a move
on."

The faces that appeared were ludicrous in their expressions of dismay
and appeal. Their owners came out like dogs from a kennel who expect to
be kicked as they emerge. One of them had taken off his boots for better
sleeping and he hobbled uneasily in his socks.

"Take along yore booze," said Sandy.

The bootless one looked furtively at the demijohn, still like a wary cur
who snatches at and bolts with a stray bone. Then the pair set off at a
jog trot after the rest.

"I wonder," said Sam, "if that was good whisky?"

Sandy looked at him reproachfully. "Sody-Water," he said, "I'm plumb
disappointed in you an' yore cravin'. Smell it an' see."

His gun exploded. The man with the demijohn gave a curious hop, skip an