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 sheriff, stepping across the room, looked
for such evidence as flying lead might have left for him. In the wall
just behind the spot where Bisbee had stood were two bullet holes.
Going to the far end of the room where the chair leaned against the
table, he found that a pane of glass in the window opening upon the
street had been broken.
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