"There," he said, as the sheriff ran in. "You see, I've done it. I've killed the bastard."
The sheriff knelt beside Bud and turned him over. Walton was shot through the forehead and must have been dead before he hit the floor.
"Hem," said the sheriff. He got up and requested the surrender of Jeff's gun, which was given up without question. Johnson inspected it with care.
"You fired three, hey, Jeff?"
"Three," answered the other, his gaze fixed on the body.
The sheriff was scrutinizing the six-shooter and its empty chambers. He scratched his head. Thomas turned to the bar. His nostrils were straining and there was an unnatural distension of the eye-balls.
"Gimme a drink," he said.
Daniel Boone emerged from the corner where he had thrown himself flat, and the Fashion filled with men. They grouped in a semi-circle about the corpse and regarded it soberly.
"You're under arrest, Jeff," said the sheriff.
"Sure."