“There wasn’t any crazy shootin’ up of this part of the town, then?” he said. “It was reported there was.”
The Mexicans clamored about him, declaring that the woman was dying, and demanding the immediate punishment of the man who had shot her.
“But if he didn’t shoot at her, and hadn’t any intention of hittin’ her?” said the marshal, trying to lull the storm.
They still clamored.
Woods turned from them to the man who was now his prisoner.
“This thing will have to be looked into, anyhow, Conover,” he said regretfully. “If the woman dies it may make trouble for you. But we’ll hope she’ll git well. Anyway, I don’t see but I’ll have to take you to jail until the thing can be looked into.”
His tone was almost an apology, and Conover understood it as such.
The deep flush, accentuating the liquor-red of his face, noticed once before that morning, came again; his blue eyes contracted and narrowed; for a moment he looked defiant, his hand dropping toward the revolver pocket hidden by the corduroy coat. He forgot for the instant that he had surrendered the weapon.
Then his mood changed, and he laughed, a harsh sound that had no merriment in it.
“Oh, all right, Woods!” he said. “Just as you say. I wouldn’t shoot a woman—not even a Mexican one; I ain’t that kind, and you know it. I’ll go with you.”