J. Allan Dunn

“ As sheriff I impound guns when I see fit. Enny special reason you want this partickler gun?”
“I want it because you have no right to try and run things in this fashion.” Bradey’s face was getting puffy and mottled, his eyes flecked with red. “There is no value to the gun other than that the rider will have to buy another. Out of his own money. I look out for their interests.”
“He’s got another,” said Gorman. ”

“ Gorman got up in his turn.
“I’m closin’ this interview, Bradey,” he said. “You’re right in one thing. It don’t do for a man to overrate himself.”
“Why, damn you, what do you mean?”
“One thing I mean”—the sheriff’s voice changed—“and that is not to be cussed by enny man. You want to git that. You know where you stand about yore lines now. Better stick a blue print up in yore office at the ranch. But cussin’ ain’t permitted in here, Bradey.”
The cattle dealer glared, picked up his hat, and went out. Gorman watched him through the window, starting his car and slipping in the gears. ”

“ But he could not quite keep his glance from the jiggling water. He did not know the trick, oldest of any sleight-of-hand diversions.
Murder-mad, he shot down his hand to jerk his holster forward and fire through its open end. The silent watchers tensed. ”