A stupid puzzled expression gathered on the face of the man in the army overcoat. He seemed to be groping for the meaning of what had happened. The huge body swayed and the bowie clattered to the floor.
Both brothers watched the killer intently. Neither fired a second shot, though every sense, nerve, and muscle waited in readiness for instant action.
Dutch clutched at the faro table with both hands, then unexpectedly pitched forward upon it, scattering chips and cards in all directions.
From behind the bar, from back of chairs and tables, men cautiously emerged. Others gathered themselves from the floor where they had been lying low. The lookout stuck a head carefully through the side doorway. There would be no more shooting.
Scot spoke quietly. “I take you-all to witness, gentlemen, that he came here looking for trouble. My brother and I fired in self-defence.”
Someone thrust a hand under the big body and pushed aside the blue coat. “Heart’s still beating,” he announced.
“Then send for a doctor and have him looked after. I’ll pay the bill,” Scot said, still in an even expressionless voice.
“Hadn’t you better finish the job?” a voice whispered in Hugh’s ear.
Hugh turned, dizzy with nausea. “God, no!” he answered.
“If he lives he’ll get you sure—both of you.”