"Don't kill me, Pony!" he cried, in ghastly
mimickry of Longtree's voice. "Don't kill an old pal, Pony!" And the
sound of his voice was lost in the blunt roar of a shot that loosened
Baxter's fingers from the automatic. It clattered to the floor.
Baxter braced himself against the door-frame and, turning, staggered to
the desk 'phone.
The Spider nodded to the faro-dealer. "Close your cases," he said, and
he hiccoughed and spat viciously. "Get me downstairs--I'm done."
The dealer, who possessed plenty of nerve himself, was dumb with wonder
that this man, who had deliberately walked into a fight against three
fast guns, was still on his feet. Yet he realized that The Spider had
made his last fight. He was hard hit. "God, what a mess!" said the
dealer as he took The Spider's arm and steadied him to the office.
"You better lay down," he suggested.
"Got a cab downstairs. General Hospital."
The driver, who had been taking a nap inside the cab, heard the sound
of shooting, started up, threw back the lap-robe, and stepped to the
sidewalk. He listened, trying to count the shots.
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