“No-o-o-o-o!” wailed Johnny, ducking aside. “Point it in the air, you cross between a monkey and a Christmas tree!”
But Jim Legg reeled around on his high-heels, giggling drunkenly, the big gun in both hands.
“Don’t do that, you —— fool!” wailed Oyster. “Aw, fer—”
Wham! The big gun spouted smoke between Johnny Grant and Eskimo, who promptly fell sidewise, and the bullet tore into the dirt almost under the feet of the sheriff, who had stopped about fifty feet away.
The recoil of the gun caused Jim Legg to turn half-way around. He staggered back on his heels, possibly more frightened than any of the rest.
“Whee-e-e-e-e!” he yelled, and his next shot missed Lee Barnhardt by a full inch.
“Yee-e-e-e-o-o-ow!” screamed Johnny Grant. “Cowboy blood! Look at the sheriff!”
Scotty Olson was galloping back toward his office, his legs working as fast as possible, his hat clutched tightly in one hand.
“Look at the lawyer!” yelled Eskimo, and they turned to see Lee Barnhardt go head first into his office door, like a frightened gopher, dodging a hawk.
But Oyster Shell was not paying any attention to the departing sheriff and lawyer. He wrenched the gun from Jim’s hands and grasped Jim by the arm.