“Somebody celebratin’,” decided Johnny Grant, as the sheriff and several men moved to the doorway and went outside. They gulped their drinks, and went out into the street, where the only lights were those from the saloon and store windows.
“Somebody tryin’ to be funny,” grumbled the sheriff.
He went back into the Oasis. Some men had come from Moon’s store across the street, evidently wondering who had fired the shot. Two men with a lantern were fussing around a wagon in front of the blacksmith shop. One of the men came across from the store and went into the Oasis. It was Chet Le Moyne.
“Well, I reckon it was some puncher wishful of makin’ a noise,” decided Johnny Grant. They turned and were going back into the saloon, when some one called from the hotel, which was across the street, and about a block north of the Oasis.
“C’mere!” yelled the man. He was evidently calling to some one in the hotel. “Come out and help me with this feller!”
“That sounds like somethin’ wrong,” said Hashknife. “Let’s go and see what it is.”
They hurried up the street and crossed to the hotel, where several men had gathered around a man who was lying flat on the ground.
“He’s been shot,” they heard one of them say. “Better pack him into the hotel and send for a doctor.”
A man scratched a match, but it flickered out. Hashknife shoved him aside, dropped on his knees beside the man, and ignited a match, with a snap of his thumb-nail. The illumination showed a gory face, gray as ashes, where the blood had not stained.
“My ——!” blurted Johnny. “It’s Jimmy Legg!”