Jeff lurched to his feet and leaned over the fallen man. He fired twice in quick succession, but his hand shook so that the bullets tore splinters in the boarding at either side of Walton. Then he desisted and stood waiting, the six-shooter hanging limply from his fingers.
"There," he said, as the sheriff ran in. "You see, I've done it. I've killed the bastard."
The sheriff knelt beside Bud and turned him over. Walton was shot through the forehead and must have been dead before he hit the floor.
"Hem," said the sheriff. He got up and requested the surrender of Jeff's gun, which was given up without question. Johnson inspected it with care.
"Three," answered the other, his gaze fixed on the body.
The sheriff was scrutinizing the six-shooter and its empty chambers. He scratched his head. Thomas turned to the bar. His nostrils were straining and there was an unnatural distension of the eye-balls.
Daniel Boone emerged from the corner where he had thrown himself flat, and the Fashion filled with men. They grouped in a semi-circle about the corpse and regarded it soberly.
"You're under arrest, Jeff," said the sheriff.
"Gentlemen, I'll have to ask you-all to leave. Clear the bar, gentlemen, please. The inquest'll be to-morrow morning over in Bob Turner's place. Step lively, gentlemen. I've got a pile of things to do."
I was shoved from the saloon with the others and went only too willingly. Shortly afterwards three men bore the remains of Walton out of the Fashion and laid them in an empty room above Turner's store. The proprietor was justice of the peace and would sit as coroner.
Badger filled the court-room on the morrow. The crowd overflowed into the street, and there was much jostling and frantic efforts at peering over the heads of neighbors; also, requests to witnesses to speak louder, that all might hear. Follows a rough transcript of the evidence presented.
Bartender.--It was ten o'clock. There was nobody in the bar except Dan Boone--he was playing solitaire in the far corner--and Jeff Thomas, and a fat party unknown to him. The fat party had come in with the sheriff and sat over against the window. Jeff was alone and was monkeying with his fingers on the table--sort of playing tunes. He, the bartender, was reading a letter from a lady who lived in Silver City--a right nice, respectable lady--when Bud came in on the jump. He yelled something at Jeff and they took to shooting. That's all he saw, because he hid behind the beer-keg immediately. Yes, he had heard shots. Four, he thought, but he could not be sure. The bartender rubbed his bald spot and added that there seemed to be five, but he would not swear to that--they came so fast.