Oakhurst. It's a lie, Pritchard,--a cowardly lie!
Pritchard. Is it? Hush!
Sandy (without, singing),--
Oh, yer's yer Sandy Morton,
Drink him down!
Oh, yer's yer Sandy Morton,
Drink him down!
Oh, yer's yer Sandy Morton,
All alive and just a-snortin'!
Oh, yer's yer Sandy Morton,
Drink him down!
Pritchard. We don't propose to run him in yer, cept we're took, or
yer unaccommodatin' to the boys.
Oakhurst. And if I refuse?
Pritchard. Why, we'll take what we can get; and we'll leave Sandy
Morton with you yer, to sorter alleviate the old man's feelin's
over the loss of his money. There's nothin' mean about us; no! eh,
boys? (Going toward safe.)
Oakhurst. Hear me a moment, Henry Pritchard. (PRITCHARD stops
abreast of OAKHURST.) Four years ago you were assaulted in the
Arcade Saloon in Sacramento. You would have been killed, but your
assailant suddenly fell dead by a pistol-shot fired from some
unknown hand. I stood twenty feet from you with folded arms; but
that shot was fired by me,--me, Henry Pritchard,--through my
clothes, from a derringer hidden in my waistcoat! Understand me, I
do not ask your gratitude now. But that pistol is in my right
hand, and now covers you. Make a single motion,--of a muscle,--and
it is your last.
Pritchard (motionless, but excitedly). You dare not fire! No,
dare not! A shot here will bring my pal and Sandy Morton to
confront you.
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