Hank Stagg was the only one who did not show fight. He still leaned against the bar, dazed, half-crying. The shooting had ceased now. Harp stepped away from the far end of the bar, a smoking gun in his hand, and stared at Ike Welden, who seemed asleep, standing up in the chair.
“He’s dead, Brick,” said Harp in an awed voice. “He’s dead, but won’t lay down.”
Then Hank Stagg suddenly came to life. With an animal-like scream he sprang away from the bar, drawing his gun, and whirling on Brick, only to be met with a bullet that caused him to spin on his heel, and a second later he went crashing to the floor, with Harp on his back.
Brick backed against the bar and looked at the wreckage. Leach was sprawled on his face, arms outstretched; Silent was sitting on the prostrate figure of Meecham, while Harp sat on Hank Stagg and tried to find out just how badly hurt his victim was. Santel was still on his hands and knees, but now he sat down, supporting himself with one arm, while he tried to brush the mists away from his muddled brain.
The crowd came drifting back in, questioning, wondering, coughing from the fumes of burnt powder which clouded the room.
There was silence, as the crowd realized the tragedy which had just been enacted. Came a crash, as Ike Welden fell from his standing position on the chair, and the crowd started to duck for cover again.
“He decided to quit,” said Harp blandly. “Takes some folks a long time to find out anythin’.”
Santel looked around the circle of faces until he found Brick. He seemed dazed, sick, but his voice was still strong enough.
“Much obliged, Davidson,” he said. “I was in on the deal, but you found out more than I could. Leach had me come here to keep you from investigating. He wanted me to kill yuh.” Santel hesitated, forcing a grin. “I suppose I would, if they hadn’t killed Baldy Malloy.
“They offered me a thousand dollars to force yuh into a gun-fight, and I—I fell down on the job. I’m glad I did—now.