“C’rect the first shot, Chuck,” drawled a quiet voice from the front.
Every man there turned, to behold Steve Arnold in the doorway, a gun in each hand. To one side of the swinging doors, thumbs in his vest, was negligently posed Sam Fisher.
“I’ve come for you, Mike,” he said in the moment of dead silence. “Chuck, you and your friends will be attended to by Mr. Arnold, here, so be careful. Mike, go for your gun——”
Mike had already gone for it, merely switching around the shotgun atop the bar. It burst into a shattering, deafening roar that drowned the words of Sam Fisher. Under the roar came the whiplike crack of a revolver.
There was a crash and crackle of falling glass; the double load of buckshot took out the front window with admirable unanimity. Silence fell, dread and ominous. Galway Mike had fallen over his bar, and lay there motionless. Sam Fisher jerked his gun into its holster again, his face hard and flinty, his eyes burning.
“Sorry about this, boys,” he said, “but it’s time that Mr. Buck and his friends were put out of business.”
“Who killed Cervantes?” yelled somebody. Sam Fisher held up his hand.
“I’ll tell you,” he said, and there was silence. “Three men hid in the brush and shot Cervantes, ambushed him, murdered him without a chance. Two of those men did the shooting. The third man was Chuck Hansom, yonder. One of the actual murderers is dead. The other was Templeton Buck—and I’m going to send him to the pen for it.”
“You lie!” cried the shrill voice of Chuck Hansom. “You lie! You done it yourself——”
“You devil, I seen the whole thing!” shouted Steve Arnold, breaking loose. “I seen it all——”