“Good shootin’,” he said coldly. “That settles the argument, Gonzales, so we’ll go ahead.”
The priest was so badly shaken that he stared dumbly at the outstretched body of Torres, and his lips moved in prayer. Baldy touched him on the arm and motioned for him to proceed. Gonzales had released Wanna when the knife guard had struck him, but now he grasped her again.
But before the priest could begin the ceremony, Jack Meline stepped out from the wall, his bloody lips twisted strangely, and sent a bullet from a heavy revolver into the body of the big Gonzales.
It was so unlooked for that no one moved. Gonzales turned on his heel, a look of wonder on his cruel face. He did not seem to know what had happened. It seemed as if he were waiting for someone to explain. Then he went to his knees and sprawled sidewise, his huge hands gripping at the dirt floor.
Jack had not moved after the shot. The gun was still tensed at his side, a trickle of smoke coming from the muzzle.
“My God, what did yuh do that for?”
Baldy’s voice seemed high-pitched, querulous. Doctor Meline moved ponderously toward Jack, peering at him.
“You fool, have you gone mad?” he demanded. “Do you realize what you have done?”
Jack stepped against the wall, covering the doctor with the gun.
“I know what I’ve done,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t make me do it again.”