AN INQUEST AND A SURPRISE
I was looking toward Thomas at the moment. His face blanched, but his hand sped to his breast, where a gun was secreted in a holster sewed to the inside of his shirt bosom. Before he could draw, Walton pulled on him once. This much I saw and then dived under the table. There came another shot. Bud stood a second or two, with a sort of wondering, puzzled look in his eyes. He swayed and sank gently to the floor, almost within touch of his enemy.
Jeff lurched to his feet and leaned over the fallen man. He fired twice in quick succession, but his hand shook so that the bullets tore splinters in the boarding at either side of Walton. Then he desisted and stood waiting, the six-shooter hanging limply from his fingers.
"There," he said, as the sheriff ran in. "You see, I've done it. I've killed the bastard."
The sheriff knelt beside Bud and turned him over. Walton was shot through the forehead and must have been dead before he hit the floor.
"Hem," said the sheriff. He got up and requested the surrender of Jeff's gun, which was given up without question. Johnson inspected it with care.
"You fired three, hey, Jeff?"
"Three," answered the other, his gaze fixed on the body.
The sheriff was scrutinizing the six-shooter and its empty chambers. He scratched his head. Thomas turned to the bar. His nostrils were straining and there was an unnatural distension of the eye-balls.
"Gimme a drink," he said.
Daniel Boone emerged from the corner where he had thrown himself flat, and the Fashion filled with men. They grouped in a semi-circle about the corpse and regarded it soberly.
"You're under arrest, Jeff," said the sheriff.
"Sure."
"Gentlemen, I'll have to ask you-all to leave. Clear the bar, gentlemen, please. The inquest'll be to-morrow morning over in Bob Turner's place. Step lively, gentlemen. I've got a pile of things to do."
I was shoved from the saloon with the others and went only too willingly. Shortly afterwards three men bore the remains of Walton out of the Fashion and laid them in an empty room above Turner's store. The proprietor was justice of the peace and would sit as coroner.
Badger filled the court-room on the morrow. The crowd overflowed into the street, and there was much jostling and frantic efforts at peering over the heads of neighbors; also, requests to witnesses to speak louder, that all might hear. Follows a rough transcript of the evidence presented.
Bartender.—It was ten o'clock. There was nobody in the bar except Dan Boone—he was playing solitaire in the far corner—and Jeff Thomas, and a fat party unknown to him. The fat party had come in with the sheriff and sat over against the window. Jeff was alone and was monkeying with his fingers on the table—sort of playing tunes. He, the bartender, was reading a letter from a lady who lived in Silver City—a right nice, respectable lady—when Bud came in on the jump. He yelled something at Jeff and they took to shooting. That's all he saw, because he hid behind the beer-keg immediately. Yes, he had heard shots. Four, he thought, but he could not be sure. The bartender rubbed his bald spot and added that there seemed to be five, but he would not swear to that—they came so fast.
Daniel Boone.—He had seen nothing at all, but had heard shots. No, he could not say how many. Then, when the sheriff came back, he saw Bud Walton lying dead and Jeff standing over him, a little to one side.
Myself.—A boy had summoned the sheriff to the express office while he and I were seated in the Fashion, playing dominoes. Soon afterwards a man entered quickly—yes, it was the man whose body lay upstairs—and yelled at Thomas that he had got him now. Thomas was alone at a table in the center of the room. He was strumming with his fingers on the table. The visitor fired first; then there was another shot, and he dropped to the floor. After he fell, Thomas shot twice. He missed him both times.
Tommy Turner.—Bud Walton had sent him with a message to the sheriff in the Fashion. The message was that Lafe was wanted at the express office right away.
Thereupon the coroner requested the survivor for his version of the fight.
Jeff Thomas.—He was waiting in the Fashion for one of the Lazy L boys to come along. They had a horse trade on. Bud Walton appeared at the door. He pulled a gun on him. Bud got the first shot in—he was positive of that. He fired once and Walton went down. Not being certain Bud was really done for, he pulled a couple of times more, but thought he had missed.
Yes, they had long been enemies. Walton was always abusing him behind his back. He had made threats. Some of his friends had strung up Tom Rooker, too. Tom wouldn't never harm a fly in his life. Only the day before, Bud had told some men Jeff knew, that he would get Thomas within forty-eight hours. So witness had asked for a permit to carry a gun. Mr. Turner knew about this. He had given the permit.
The coroner.—"Did you expect him last night?"
Thomas hesitated perceptibly. "Yes, I did," he said.
"What made you?"
"Somebody tipped me off he might be coming. I'd rather not say who it was."
Coroner.—"Where did Walton's shot go?"
"Here," said the prisoner.
He fished in his pocket and drew out a Bible. The crowd craned their necks and swayed toward it eagerly.
"Why, that's mine," the coroner said.
It was, in truth, one that Bob had carried off as a Sunday School prize, when a boy, in Ohio. It was so stiff that the cover cracked when it was opened; but the leather binding was ripped and torn, and the leaves were plowed into pulp for three-fourths of its thickness. At this point the sheriff explained that the bullet had been deflected into the solid wood of the table. He had dug it out.
Coroner.—"Where did you get this here book?"
The gunfighter looked rather sheepish.
"I'm sort of superstitious," he confessed, "and when I seen that in your office the other day, Bob, I stuck it inside my shirt."
A murmur swept over the court-room and beat against the walls.
Coroner.—"You've killed six men, ain't you?"
"No, sir; you're wrong. Only four," Thomas corrected, licking his dry lips.
"Gen'l'men," said the coroner, not without sternness toward Thomas, "this hits me like so plain a case of shooting in self-defense, that I reckon we don't need to bother no more about the evidence."
"Hold on," the sheriff said. "Hold on, there; I'd like for to say something."
Being duly sworn, he started off like this: "Gentlemen, this wasn't a killing. It was a murder."
Everybody waited open-mouthed to hear more. Thomas turned on him a quick, startled glance. Then someone said: "What's the matter with you, Lafe?"
"It's just what I done said. Murder."
There was a stir, and a ripple of unbelieving laughter. "Order!" the coroner cried. He was looking to Johnson for explanation.
"I was kind of wondering," the prisoner muttered, half aloud, as though not altogether surprised at the turn of events.
"Yes, sir, Bud Walton was murdered. This man here didn't kill him at all. Here's Jeff's gun. Take a look at it. It's a .45. Bud, he was killed with a 30-30 rifle. Here's the bullet. Jeff's first shot went way above his head into the ceiling, and the next two are in the boards."