Dalhart heard the movement somewhere beyond him. He stepped to his own door just as Williams was about to emerge at his. Then came a report. Immediately upon it came a grunt or groan, the fall of the body of a man upon the floor.
Del Williams was himself in a flash. He fully had intended to shoot Dalhart deliberately. Now he had shot him practically by accident. The barrel, which happened to be just at the level of the man’s body as Williams whirled the cylinder, discharged the heavy ball as fatally as though by intent. The hammer must have been hit with his thumb. He never knew how it happened; no man ever does know how these things happen. The bullet pierced one partition after another. It had force enough left, driven by the heavy charge of fine rifle powder, to penetrate also the chest wall of a man’s body.
Dalhart fell, nor was it given to him to see the man who had killed him. If ever he heard the running feet of that man, or saw his glance cast into the room as he ran, no one ever could tell. He was dead the instant after the ball struck him.
A man met Williams in the front room, at the foot of the stair.
“What was that?” he demanded. “Who shot?”
Williams smiled.
“I reckon some fellow up there must have let off his gun by mistake. Maybe he has got too much liquor on board. Leave him go; he won’t hurt nobody.”
He passed out deliberately; deliberately gathered the reins of his horse; deliberately swung into the saddle and turned down the street.
Dan McMasters and Wild Bill Hickok, a block away, both had heard the sound of the shot and were walking toward the door.
“How are you, Del!” called McMasters. “I’m glad you got through all right.”