r, Jim Galloway, before I get through, and you can bet all of
your blue chips on it. I want Antone in here and I want you outside!
Do I get what I want or not?"

Galloway stood motionless, his cigar clamped tight in his big square
teeth. Then he shrugged and went to the door.

"If I am standing a good deal off of you," he muttered, hanging on his
heel just before he passed out, "it's because I am as strong as any man
in the county to see the law brought into San Juan. And"--for the
first time yielding outwardly to a display of the emotion riding him,
he spat out venomously and tauntingly--"and we'd have had the law here
long ago had we had a couple of men in the boots of the Nortons, father
and son!"

Rod Norton's face went a flaming red with anger, his hand grew white
upon the butt of the gun at his side.

"Some day, Jim Galloway," he said steadily, "I'll get you just as sure
as you got Billy Norton!"

Galloway laughed and went out.

To Antone, Norton put the identical questions he had asked of Galloway,
receiving virtually the same replies. Seeking the one opportunity
suggesting itself into tricking the bartender, he asked at the end:

"Just before the shooting, when you and Galloway were talking and he
told you that Bisbee was looking for trouble, why weren't you ready to
grab him when he went for his gun?"

Antone was giving his replies as guardedly as Galloway had done. He
took his time now.

"Because," he began finally, "I do not belief when Senor Galloway speak
that . . ."

His eyes had been roving from Norton's, going here and there about the
room. Suddenly a startled look came into them and he snapped his mouth
shut.

"Go on," prompted the sheriff.

"I don't remember," grunted Antone. "I forget what Senor Galloway say,
what I say. Bisbee say: 'Have a drink.' The Kid say: 'Go to hell.'
Bisbee shoot, one, two, three, like that. I forget what we talk about."

Norton turned slowly and looked whither Antone had been looking when he
cut his own words off so sharply. The man upon whom his eyes rested
longest was a creased-faced Mexican, Vidal Nunez, who now stood, head
down, making a cigarette.

"That's all, Antone," Norton said. "Send the Kid in."

The Kid came, still sullen but swaggering a little, his hat cocked
jauntily to one side, the yellow wisp of hair in his faded eyes. And
he in turn questioned, gave such answers as the two had given before
him.

Now for the first time the