He punctuated the last sentence with a shot into the floor at Kerr’s feet. Whereat Rock stepped between the little man and his tormentor. His Colt was in his hand. Like Duffy’s, it pointed at the floor. There was a swift surge of men away from the bar.
“You’ve gone far enough with this, Duffy,” Rock said quietly. “Don’t be a damn fool.”
For five tense seconds Duffy glared at Rock; then his gun jerked. At the movement, Rock fired. He was pitching himself sidewise, as he pulled trigger. He knew when he interfered that there would only be one end to such interference, and he had discounted that. Duffy’s bullet sped somewhere past his face. And Rock held his second shot, for the big man was sagging slowly forward, until suddenly he collapsed on the floor.
Rock slid the fallen six-shooter with his toe toward Kerr, his eyes on the crowd.
“Take that till we get out of here,” he said. “Maybe he’s got friends.”
But other friends were at hand. Half a dozen of Kerr’s men came shouldering their way toward him.
“That was neat,” one grinned at Rock. “We couldn’t very well bust our way through that crowd, but if anybody wants to go farther with it, we’re here to take ’em on.”
Evidently no one did. They walked, Kerr and Rock and five trail hands, the length of the room to the entrance door, while the hush that sudden death always brings held the crowd in the Odeon.
Once in the street beside their mounts, Kerr said: