"Keep those men where they are," called Tom Cutter to Struve. "Every
damned one of them; there'll be an answer wanted for to-night's work.
Get a doctor, somebody; Patten or Miss Page."
Candles were brought; presently a lamp was found and set on the bar.
The curious began to desert Struve and his prisoners outside, and to
crowd about Cutter and the two forms lying still in the corner. Kid
Rickard, cursing now and then, had dragged himself a little away and
grew quiet, half propped up against the wall. Struve, as the fire of
fagots and grass began to burn low, commanded Galloway to lead the way
back into the barroom and herded five other men after him, the shotgun
promising a mutilated body to any man of them who sought to run for it.
"Nunez is dead," reported the deputy sheriff, getting up from his
knees. "Norton is alive and that's about all. A shot along the side
of the head."
He turned slowly toward Galloway who, with steady hands and his face
set in hard, inscrutable lines, was pouring himself a generous glass of
whiskey.
"Looks like you'd got him, Jim," he said harshly, his eyes glittering.
"And it looks like I'd got you. Where I want you, by God!"
Galloway drank his whiskey and made no reply. He was thinking,
thinking fast. His eyes were never still now, but roved from Rod
Norton's white face to the faces of Tom Cutter, Struve, and the other
men gathering in the room.
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