“Y porque?  What am I to do?”

“As you are told,” Norton snapped at him.  “Benny, you and Dick walk down the street with Antone; you other boys walk down the other way with Rickard.  If they haven’t had all the chance to talk together already that they want, don’t give them any more opportunity.  Step up, Rickard.”

The Kid sulked, but under the look the sheriff turned on him came forward and went out, his whole attitude remaining one of defiance.  Antone, his swart face as expressionless as a piece of mahogany, hesitated, glanced at Galloway, shrugged, and did as Rickard had done, going out between his two guards.  The men remaining in the barroom were watching their sheriff expectantly.  He swung about upon Galloway.

“Now,” he said quickly, “who fired the first shot.  Galloway?”

Galloway smiled, went to his bar, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and standing there, the glass twisting slowly in his fingers, stared back innocently at his interrogator.

“Trying the case already, Judge Norton?” he inquired equably.

“Will you answer?” Norton said coolly.

“Sure.”  Galloway kept his look steady upon the sheriff’s, and into the innocence of his eyes there came a veiled insolence.  “Bisbee shot first.”

“Where was he standing?”

Galloway pointed.

“Right there.”  The spot indicated was about three or four feet from where Norton stood, near the second card-room door.

“Where was the Kid?”

“Over there.”  Again Galloway pointed.  “Clean across the room, where the chair is tumbled over against the table.”

“How many times did Bisbee shoot?”

Galloway seemed to be trying to remember.  He drank his whiskey slowly, reached over the bar for a cigar, and answered: 

“Twice or three times.”

“How many times did Rickard shoot?”

“I’m not sure.  I’d say about the same; two or three times.”

“Where was Antone standing?”

“Behind the bar; down at the far end, nearest the door.”

“Where were you?”

“Leaning against the bar, talking to Antone.”

“What were you talking about?”

This question came quicker, sharper than the others, as though calculated to startle Galloway into a quick answer.  But the proprietor of the Casa Blanca was lighting his cigar and took his time.  When he looked up, his eyes told Norton that he had understood any danger which might lie under a question so simple in the seeming.  His eyes were smiling contemptuously, but there was a faint flush in his cheeks.

“I don’t remember,” he replied at last.  “Some trifle.  The shooting, coming suddenly that way . . .

“What started the ruction?”

“Bisbee had been drinking a little.  He seemed to be in the devil’s own temper.  He had asked the Kid to have a drink with him, and Rickard refused.  He had his drink alone and then invited the Kid again.  Rickard told him to go to hell.  Bisbee started to walk across the room as though he was going to the card-room.  Then he grabbed his gun and whirled and started shooting.”