But always he
remembered where he had seen Elmer Page standing, and always he
remembered Antone behind the bar, and Vidal Nunez drawn back into a
corner. His forty-five emptied, he jammed it back into its holster and
stood rigid, staring into the blackness about him, every sense on the
qui vive. Galloway had given over shooting; he might be dead or merely
waiting. Vidal had held his fire, seeming frightened, uncertain, half
stunned. Antone would be leaning forward, peering with frowning eyes,
trying to locate him.
It swept into Norton's mind suddenly that thus, in utter and unexpected
darkness, he had the upper hand. He could shoot, the law riding upon
each flying pellet of lead, and be it Jim Galloway or Antone or Vidal,
or any other of Galloway's crowd who fell, it would be a man who richly
deserved what his fate was bringing him. They, on the other hand,
being many against one, must be careful which way they shot.
He had come for Vidal Nunez. The man he wanted was yonder, but a few
feet from him. Duty and desire pointed across the room to the obscure
corner. He moved a cautious foot. The floor complained under his
shifting weight and from Galloway's quarter came a spit of fire. Twin
with it came a shot from behind the bar. That was Antone talking.
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