Jimmy’s three drinks had made him reckless.
“You let that dog alone!” yelped Jimmy.
He was about twenty feet away from the swearing, perspiring Porter, who paused long enough to consign Jimmy to a place which was even more arid than Death Valley.
“By ——, I’ll learn that dog to bite me!” he roared. “I’ll smash in his —— skull!”
The first rock struck the end of the bench and glanced into Geronimo, who yelped more from fright than actual distress.
“Stop that, you dirty coyote!” yelled Jimmy.
Porter let fly with another rock, which narrowly missed breaking one of the store windows, and whirled angrily toward Jimmy.
“Who’s a coyote?” he snorted.
His right hand swung back to the butt of his gun. It is barely possible that Jimmy’s three drinks had ruined his perspective, because he whipped out his gun and shot at Porter, almost before his hand swung away from his hip.
The enraged deputy was off balance, unprepared, his right foot lifted, as he had been following the swing of his throwing-arm. And at the crack of Jimmy’s gun, his feet seemed to jerk from under him and he came down in the hard street with a crash.