Silas Creeds motioned with his glass at Tweedy and Lowth. Shawn swung out of the saddle and stood holding the reins of his mount. “Looks like the ball is about to open, Creeds.” “Soon. But not yet. The boss wants to look over the ship.” “He may not have time,” Shawn pointed out. “He’s got the Arab in gun range. Zeb knows it and the Arab knows it. The ball will open when Zeb Moss decides to open it and it ain’t yet.” Creeds waved toward the table. “Go get yourself some grub, but stay clear of the rum.” Shawn looked around him. “I count thirty seamen, and most of them are already armed. You plan to take them on with six men?” “Nine, including you and them two with you, and ten, counting Mr. Moss. The boss should count for two or three, just like me and maybe the Topock Kid, if he’s well enough.” “It’s getting a little too tense for comfort around here, Creeds,” Shawn said. “When will the shooting start?” Creeds gave his yellow smile. “When I put a bullet in you, O’Brien, you’ll know when it ends.
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