ckard's eyes went to
him swiftly. Then he got to his feet, jerked a thirty-eight-caliber
revolver from the hip pocket of his overalls and held it out,
surrendering it reluctantly. Norton "broke" it, ejecting the
cartridges into his palm. Not an empty shell among them; the Kid had
slipped in a fresh shell for every exploded one.

"How many times did you shoot?"

"I don't know. Two or three, I guess. . . . Damn it, do you imagine a
man counts 'em?"

"What were you and Galloway doing alone in here with the door locked?"

Galloway cut in sharply:

"I didn't want any more trouble; I was afraid somebody . . ."

"Shut up, will you?" cried the sheriff fiercely. "I'll give you all
the chance you want to talk pretty soon. Answer me, Rickard."

"I told him to lock me up somewhere until you or Tom Cutter come," said
the Kid slowly. "I was afraid somebody might jump me for what I done.
I didn't want no more trouble."

Norton turned briefly to the crowded room behind him.

"Anybody know where Cutter is?" he asked.

It appeared that every one knew. Tom Cutter, Rod Norton's deputy, had
gone in the early morning to Mesa Verde, and would probably return in
the cool of the evening. Frowning, Norton made the best of the
situation, and to gain his purpose called four men out of the crowd.

"I want you boys to do me a favor," he said.

"Antone, come here."

The short, squat half-breed standing behind the bar lifted his heavy
black brows, demanding:

"_Y porque_? What am I to do?"

"As you are told," Norton snapped at him. "Benny, you and Dick walk
down the street with Antone; you other boys walk down the other way
with Rickard. If they haven't had all the chance to talk together
already that they want, don't give them any more opportunity. Step up,
Rickard."

The Kid sulked, but under the look the sheriff turned on him came
forward and went out, his whole attitude remaining one of defiance.
Antone, his swart face as expressionless as a piece of mahogany,
hesitated, glanced at Galloway, shrugged, and did as Rickard had done,
going out between his two guards. The men remaining in the barroom
were watching their sheriff expectantly. He swung about upon Galloway.

"Now," he said quickly, "who fired the first shot. Galloway?"

Galloway smiled, went to his bar, poured himself a glass of whiskey,
and standing there, the glass twisting slowly in his fingers, stared
back innocently at his interrogator.

"Tryi