"Yes," said Galloway.
"The Kid there did it?"
For the first time the man slouching forward in the chair lifted his head. Had a stranger looked in at that moment, curious to see him who had just committed homicide . . . or murder . . . he must have experienced a positive shock. Sullen-eyed, sullen-lipped, the man-killer could not yet have seen the last of his teens. A thin wisp of straw-colored hair across a low, atavistic forehead, unhealthy, yellowish skin, with pale, lack-lustre, faded blue eyes, he looked evil and vicious and cruel. One looking from him to Jim Galloway would have suspected that one could be as inhuman as the other, but with the difference that that which was but means to an end with Galloway would be end in itself to Kid Rickard. Something of the primal savage shone in the pale fires of his eyes.
"Yes," retorted the Kid, his surly voice little better than a snarl. "I got him and be damned to him!"
"Bad luck cursing a dead man, Rickard," said Norton coldly. "What did you kill him for?"
Kid Rickard's tongue ran back and forth between his colorless lips before he replied.
"He tried to get me first," he said defiantly.
"Who saw the shooting?"
"Jim Galloway. And Antone."
Rod Norton grunted his disgust with the situation.