"Say, Mr. Johnson," he piped, "Sam wants you over to the express office right away. He says he cain't leave, so for you to come."
"All right, Tommy, boy. You run home quick and draw some water for your ma. Drag it, now." The head withdrew. "This ain't no place for a boy to be round. Sam ought to have more sense. Wait here, Dan. I'll be back in a shake."
The sheriff rose and stretched himself, with a yawn. Then he went out and crossed the street.
Daniel Boone was blowing through his loose, thick lips, as he sorted the cards. The bartender read a much-thumbed letter, and I builded a fort of my pile of dominoes. We heard a firm, swift chink of spur rowels, and Bud Walton strode into the Fashion.
"So," he said. "Now, I've got you."
CHAPTER IX
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.