Jim Galloway, who never until now had come out into the open in
defiance of the law, must swallow his words under the eyes of his own
gang, or once and for all forsake the semi-security behind his ambush.
Again issues were clear cut.
He answered the sheriff with a curse and a stream of lead. As he fired
he threw himself to the side, the old trick, his gun little higher than
his hip, and fired again. And shot for shot Norton answered him.
Though but half the length of a room lay between them, as yet, neither
man was hurt. For no longer were they in the rich light of the
swinging coal-oil lamp; the room was gathered in pitch darkness; their
guns spat long tongues of vivid flame. For, just as Kid Ricard was
falling, while Jim Galloway's finger was crooked to the trigger, while
Antone was whipping up his gun behind the bar, there had come a shot
from the card-room door shattering the lamp. Neither Norton nor
Galloway, Rickard nor Vidal Nunez, nor Antone nor any of the other men
in the room saw who had fired the shot.
As the light went out Norton leaped away from the door, having little
wish to stand silhouetted against the rectangle of pale light from the
outer night; and, leaping, he poured in his fourth and fifth and sixth
shots in the quarter where he hoped to find Galloway.
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