The gun dropped from Rawls’s hand, as he went to his knees, pitching forward on his face.
Whap! Cultus whirled in time to see Chihuahua falling like a limp bundle of clothes, preceded by the thump of a revolver, on the floor beside him, Bad News had swayed forward, his gun clutched in his right hand.
“That danged Chink had a gun under his apron!” exploded the sheriff. “He’s almost got it goin’, too. For gosh sake, what a mess! Didja kill him Cultus?”
“Got him pretty hard, I reckon. He had a gun under that serape.”
Bad News coughed from the powder fumes, and his expression was grim.
“I reckon they didn’t want us upstairs, Cultus.”
“Shore looks thataway; c’mon.”
They went swiftly up the stairs, where there were three bedrooms. The first two netted them nothing. The doors were wide open and the rooms were in disorder, but the rear room was locked and the key still in the lock on the outside.
Quickly they unlocked it and stepped inside. The room was about twelve by fourteen feet in size, apparently used as a storeroom, but on a cot, tied hand and foot, was Blaze Nolan. His face was pale and his eyes lacked lustre, but he recognised them.
“Well, for God’s sake!” blurted Bad News. “Blaze Nolan!”