“I heard,” he said hoarsely. “Hartley knows. I don’t know how he knows—but it’s true. I——”
Ed Larrimer darted sidewise, drawing his gun, realizing that King was able to prove too many things against him, but his hand jerked away from his gun and he whirled completely around, when Hashknife’s bullet smashed into his shoulder. Curt tried to jump behind Marsh Hartwell, but the big cattleman smashed him in the ear, knocking him sidewise and into Steil, who was just pulling the trigger on his six-shooter.
Steil’s gun and Hashknife’s sounded as one report. They were too close for a miss. Steil lowered his gun, looked foolishly at Curt, who was lying almost across his feet, and then sat down heavily. Larrimer was flat on the ground, clutching at his smashed shoulder, cursing weakly while Steil sat in silent contemplation of the dead man across his feet.
The sheriff stepped over and put his hand on Steil’s shoulder, but Steil did not respond. His head merely sagged a trifle lower.
“Good ——!” muttered Sudden. “He must ’a’ been dead before he hit the ground. Did he hit yuh, Hartley?”
“No-o-o,” said Hashknife softly. “He killed Curt. He was fallin’ right in front of Steil’s gun. Don’t let Larrimer get hold of that gun with his left hand. He’s ambidexterous.”
Sudden stepped over and picked up the gun, toward which Larrimer was working. A group of horsemen were riding down into the ranch, and Hashknife recognized Sleepy and Bill Steen in the lead.
There were thirteen men in the crowd—but one of them was roped to his saddle. The sheepmen had come through without a casualty. They dismounted and came over to the group. Steen ignored the questions and went to King.
“Eph, are yuh badly hurt?” he asked anxiously.
“I don’t know, Bill. I got hit twice and I feel kinda weak. Everythin’ is all right now. Hartley put the deadwood on’ em. The sheriff thought I was one of the rustlers, and they shot me up quite a little but that’s all right.”