"Come out, Galloway," said Struve coldly. "I've got you covered."
Since things were bad enough as they were, and he had no desire to make
them worse and saw no opportunity to better them, Jim Galloway, his
hand nursing a bleeding shoulder, stumbled awkwardly through the
opening.
"Is that all of 'em, Roddy?" called Cutter. Norton didn't answer. The
deputy called again. Then, while the crowd surged about door and
window. Cutter came in, a revolver in his right hand, a torch of a
burning fagot in his left, held high.
Vidal Nunez was dead; not from a blow upon the head, but from a chance
bullet through the heart after he had fallen. Kid Rickard, his sullen
eyes wide with their pain, lay half under a poker table. Lying across
the body of Nunez, as though still guarding his prisoner, was the quiet
form of Rod Norton, his face bloodlessly white save for the smear of
blood which had run from the wound hidden by the close-cropped, black
hair.
CHAPTER XII
WAVERING IN THE BALANCE
Ignacio Chavez, waiting to ask no questions, had raced away through the
darkness to beat out a wild alarm upon his bells. Later he would learn
how many were dead and would set the Captain mourning. But already had
San Juan poured out her handful of citizens upon the street.
Pages:
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159