Carlson came running in, “The bastard’s stole my Luger,” he shouted. “It ain’t in my bag.”
Curley followed him, and Curley carried a shotgun in his good hand. Curley was cold now.
“All right, you guys,” he said. “The nigger’s got a shotgun. You take it, Carlson.”
“When you see ‘um, don’t give ‘im no chance. Shoot for his guts. That’ll double ‘im over.”
Whit said excitedly, “I ain’t got a gun.” Curley said, “You go in Soledad an’ get a cop.”
“Get Al Wilts, he’s deputy sheriff. Le’s go now.” He turned suspiciously on George.
“You’re comin’ with us, fella.” “Yeah,” said George. “I’ll come. But listen, Curley.”
“The poor bastard’s nuts. Don’t shoot ‘im. He di’n’t know what he was doin’.”
“Don’t shoot ‘im?” Curley cried. “He got Carlson’s Luger. ‘Course we’ll shoot ‘im.”
George said weakly, “Maybe Carlson lost his gun.” “I seen it this morning,” said Carlson.
“No, it’s been took.” Slim stood looking down at Curley’s wife.
He said, “Curley—maybe you better stay here with your wife.” Curley’s face reddened.
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