"Give me your gun," he commanded tersely.
The Kid frowned. Galloway cleared his throat. Rickard's eyes went to him swiftly. Then he got to his feet, jerked a thirty-eight-caliber revolver from the hip pocket of his overalls and held it out, surrendering it reluctantly. Norton "broke" it, ejecting the cartridges into his palm. Not an empty shell among them; the Kid had slipped in a fresh shell for every exploded one.
"How many times did you shoot?"
"I don't know. Two or three, I guess. . . . Damn it, do you imagine a man counts 'em?"
"What were you and Galloway doing alone in here with the door locked?"
Galloway cut in sharply:
"I didn't want any more trouble; I was afraid somebody . . ."
"Shut up, will you?" cried the sheriff fiercely. "I'll give you all the chance you want to talk pretty soon. Answer me, Rickard."
"I told him to lock me up somewhere until you or Tom Cutter come," said the Kid slowly. "I was afraid somebody might jump me for what I done. I didn't want no more trouble."
Norton turned briefly to the crowded room behind him.