Reaching over he grasped a bottle and poured out a drink, his Colt
slipping from his hand and dangling from his wrist by a thong. As the
weapon started to fall several of the audience involuntarily moved as
if to pick it up. Hopalong noticed this and paused with the glass half
way to his lips. "Don't bother yoreselves none; I can git it again,"
he said, tossing off the liquor.
"Wow! Holy smoke!" he yelled. "This ain't drink! Sufferin' coyotes,
nobody can accuse yu of sellin' liquor! Did yu make this all by
yoreself?" He asked incredulously of the proprietor, who didn't know
whether to run or to pray. Then he noticed that the crowd was
spreading out and his Colts again became the center of interest.
"Yu with th' lovely face, sit down!" he ordered as the person
addressed was gliding toward the door. "I ain't a-goin' to let yu pot
me from th' street. Th' first man who tries to get scarce will stop
somethin' hot. An' yu all better sit down," he suggested, sweeping
them with his guns. One man, more obdurate than the rest, was slow in
complying and Hopalong sent a bullet through the top of his high
sombrero, which had a most gratifying effect.
"You'll regret this!" hissed a man in the rear, and a murmur of
assent arose. Some one stirred slightly in searching for a weapon and
immediately a blazing Colt froze him into a statue.
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