A Mexican was seizing one of the dance-hall girls. The scene showed the entire length of the barroom.
A lone cowboy drew a revolver and fired. The Mexican staggered, gripping his wrist. Two of his countrymen rose from a table. They drew their revolvers, in time to receive the fury of the cowboy’s fire.
There were five shots in rapid succession; a slight pause; then two more. Finally, a last shot. That was all. One of the detectives looked around him curiously.
“Say,” he said, “that’s funny. Did you get that? One shot sounded kind of muffledlike — it didn’t seem to come from the screen. Sounded like it was somewhere in the theater.”
“You can’t tell where they come from, Joe,” replied the other. “It all depends on where you’re standing. That’s what makes the act sound so good.”
The first detective saw the usher and beckoned to him.
“Did that one shot sound funny to you?” questioned Joe, the detective.
“Which one?”
“I don’t know which one — it was when those Mexicans were shooting. There were five shots.”
The usher scratched his head.