Something of the primal savage shone
in the pale fires of his eyes.
"Yes," retorted the Kid, his surly voice little better than a snarl.
"I got him and be damned to him!"
"Bad luck cursing a dead man, Rickard," said Norton coldly. "What did
you kill him for?"
Kid Rickard's tongue ran back and forth between his colorless lips
before he replied.
"He tried to get me first," he said defiantly.
"Who saw the shooting?"
"Jim Galloway. And Antone."
Rod Norton grunted his disgust with the situation.
"Give me your gun," he commanded tersely.
The Kid frowned. Galloway cleared his throat. Rickard'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.
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