“Found a dead man. He’s between here and the north end of the redlight district. It’s Mallette, the gambler.”
“Mallette!” English grasped the man by the arm. “When did you find him?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re pinchin’?” demanded the man, yanking his arm away. “I just found him. I was comin’ alone and almost fell over him. Oh, he’s dead all right.”
The man had spoken loud enough for every one to hear, and there was a general exodus to view the body. A lantern was secured, and the crowd went through the rear entrance. It was about four hundred feet from the rear of the saloon to the line of buildings that comprised the redlight district of Turquoise City.
The last house of this row, on the north end, was possibly two hundred yards from the rear of the saloon; and between that building and the Turquoise Hotel, which fronted on the main street, was Judge Beal’s little house.
The crowd went past the rear of his building and found the body of Mallette. He had been shot squarely between the eyes. Indifferent to the fact that the sheriff and coroner might care to view the remains as found, they picked up the body and carried it back to the Black Horse Saloon and placed it on a cot in a rear room.
Some one found Roaring Rigby in a restaurant and told him what had happened. He left his meal and hurried to the saloon, shouldering his way into the little room. Rigby was mad; he knew his rights. He turned on English Ed, who leaned against the wall, his face a trifle more white than usual.
“Who the hell brought that body here?” demanded Roaring.
“We did,” said English. “There was a crowd of us.”
“You did, eh?” Roaring hooked his thumbs over his belt and glared at the gambler. “A crowd of you, eh? Tromped all over everythin’, eh? Picked him right up. Hell, a sheriff has a fat chance of findin’ out anythin’. Don’tcha suppose I’d like to have seen him where he laid?”