They shoved back from the table, while Slater counted their chips, and then all went to the bar for a final drink. Harp was the first one to leave the place. He stopped on the porch of the saloon and gulped in deep breaths of the cool air.
He turned his head quickly and glanced toward the corner of the building. It seemed to him as though someone or something had moved there. But he was unable to see anything. Anyway, it was probably a dog or a cat.
He stepped off the sidewalk and started to cross the street, going diagonally, toward the office. He heard someone step out onto the sidewalk, and a moment later came the roar of a heavy gun-shot.
Harp almost fell down, as he whirled quickly, jerking out his gun. But there was nobody in sight. A gust of smoke drifted past the open doorway, showing that the shot had been fired from near where he had heard the noise.
Men were crowding out of the doorway now; so he trotted back to the edge of the sidewalk. Someone was stretched out on the boards, and now Bill Grant scratched a match, looking down at the man on the sidewalk.
“What in happened?” queried Harp.
“It’s Soapy!” grunted Grant. “Somebody help me take him inside.”
They carried him into the saloon and laid him out on the floor. He was unconscious and bleeding badly.
“I’ll get the doctor,” offered Slater, and went out of the door on the run.
“Now, who in shot him?” demanded Grant. “By , they must have waited for him to step out.”