‘Not for the law—but for justice.’
‘There’s a difference,’ agreed Red. ‘Well, I reckon I better take Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs over to the hotel and put him to bed.’
‘Lemme shee yuh do it,’ urged Briggs.
‘Oh, I can do it all right,’ declared Red.
He grasped Briggs by the collar and one sleeve and was hustling him to the doorway, when Rex Morgan came in. He was hatless, dirty, one shirtsleeve almost torn off at the shoulder. For several moments he stood there, breathing heavily, before he could speak.
‘Get a doctor!’ he blurted. ‘Mr. Evans has been shot.’
Red released Briggs, who stumbled against the wall and fell in a heap, swearing drunkenly.
‘Who do yuh mean?’ demanded Red. ‘Noah Evans, the deputy sheriff?’
Rex nodded painfully. ‘At the Lane home. He—he went out on the porch and somebody shot him.’
‘How badly is he hurt?’ asked Hashknife.