“I’m satisfied now,” said my companion, “but I guess you hain’t got that story correct; maybe you don’t know the cause of it nor how it began; maybe Williams didn’t draw fust; maybe he was in the right all the way through; maybe—but thar!—the first hand don’t decide everythin’. Your Sheriffs the man—that’s enough for me.”
After this no word was spoken for miles. As we drew near the bridge leading into the town of Kiota I remarked half-a-dozen men standing about. Generally the place was deserted, so the fact astonished me a little. But I said nothing. We had scarcely passed over half the length of the bridge, however, when I saw that there were quite twenty men lounging around the Kiota end of it. Before I had time to explain the matter to myself, Williams spoke: “I guess he’s got out all the vigilantes;” and then bitterly: “The boys in old Mizzouri wouldn’t believe this ef I told it on him, the dog-goned mean cuss.”
We crossed the bridge at a walk (it was forbidden to drive faster over the rickety structure), and toiled up the hill through the bystanders, who did not seem to see us, though I knew several of them. When we turned to the right to reach the gate of the Sheriff’s house, there were groups of men on both sides. No one moved from his place; here and there, indeed, one of them went on whittling.
I drew up at the sidewalk, threw down the reins, and jumped out of the buggy to hitch up the horse. My task was done.
I had the hitching-rein loose in my hand, when I became conscious of something unusual behind me. I looked round—it was the stillness that foreruns the storm.
Williams was standing on the side-walk facing the low wooden fence, a revolver in each hand, but both pointing negligently to the ground; the Sheriff had just come down the steps of his house; in his hands also were revolvers; his deputy, Jarvis, was behind him on the stoop.
Williams spoke first:
“Sam Johnson, you sent for me, and I’ve come.”
The Sheriff answered firmly, “I did!”
Their hands went up, and crack! crack! crack! in quick succession, three or four or five reports—I don’t know how many. At the first shots the Sheriff fell forward on his face. Williams started to run along the side-walk; the groups of men at the corner, through whom he must pass, closed together; then came another report, and at the same moment he stopped, turned slowly half round, and sank down in a heap like an empty sack.