It's this!" He drew his gun with his left hand, taking it from the waistband of his trousers--where he had placed it when he had picked it up at the Dickman cabin--and held it on the desk top, so that its dark muzzle gaped at Warden.
For an instant Warden sat, staring in dread fascination into the muzzle of the weapon, his face dead white, his eyes wide with fear, naked, cringing.

Then he spoke, his voice hoarse and quavering.
"This is murder, Lawler!" "Murder, Warden ?" jeered Lawler.

"One of my men was worth a dozen of you!" Lawler laughed--a sound that brought an ashen pallor to Warden's face; then he straightened, and turned, to face Shorty.
He lurched to Shorty's side, drew out one of the latter's big guns, and tossed it upon the desk within reach of Warden's hand.
"I gave Antrim the first shot, Warden," he said; "I gave him his chance.
I didn't murder him, and I won't murder you.

Take that gun and follow me to the street.

There's people there.