Great as was the fear of the desperado, an involuntary cry of horror went up from the crowd. Killing is all right and proper in its way, but the shooting of an unarmed man who voluntarily held up his hands and kept them up, was murder, even on the plains.
Sam looked savagely round him, glaring at the crowd that shrank away from him, the smoking pistol hanging muzzle downward from his hand.
"It's all a trick. He had a shooting-iron in his boot. I see the butt of it sticking out. That's why I fired."
"I'm not saying nothing," said Mike, as the fierce glance of Hickory rested on him, "'tain't any affair of mine."
"Yes, it is," cried Hickory.
"Why, I didn't have nothin' to do with it," protested the saloon keeper.
"No. But you've got somethin' to do with it now. What did we elect you coroner fur, I'd like to know? You've got to hustle around and panel your jury an' bring in a verdict of accidental death or something of that sort. Bring any sort or kind of verdict that'll save trouble in future. I believe in law and order, I do, an' I like to see things done regular."
"But we didn't have no jury for them cowboys," said Mike.
"Well, cowboys is different. It didn't so much matter about them. Still, it oughter been done, even with cowboys, if we were more'n half civilised. Nothin' like havin' things down on the record straight and shipshape. Now some o' you fellows help me in with the body, and Mike'll panel his jury in three shakes."
There is nothing like an energetic public-spirited man for reducing chaos to order. Things began to assume their normal attitude, and the crowd began to look to Sam for instruction. He seemed to understand the etiquette of these occasions, and those present felt that they were ignorant and inexperienced compared with him.