A growing murmur across the street attracted their attention. Then as they continued to chat of the event, the sheriff reappeared, directing half a dozen men who laid a burden in the light of Martinez’ doorway.
“You got him,” he said to Weir, with ominous significance. “One bullet through the head, one through his stomach. He’s good and dead.”
Weir walked forward and inspected that outstretched figure. It was the man whose gaze had been so malevolently fastened upon him as he joined Martinez before Sorenson’s office.
“Who is he?” he asked.
“A strange Mexican. Some of these men say he showed up this morning and hung around the saloons, not talking much. Haven’t you ever seen him, before?” The question expressed a perplexed curiosity.
“Once. When Martinez and I were coming here to transact some business. He was taking a good look at me then when he passed us. That wasn’t over half an hour ago. Never saw him before that.”
“He shot at you first?”
“I had just stepped out of this room. Could I see him hiding over there? Or know he was there?” Then he added, “I was taken by surprise, but I marked the flash of his gun.”
The sheriff, Madden by name, looked at Weir appreciatively.