there was a dull thud followed by a sharper sound. The man in the doorway had fallen and his revolver had flown from his hand.
The slight mist of exploded gases, acrid with the reek of the discharge, cleared, and showed the new-comer lying prostrate, pitched forward on his face, with outspread arms and drawn-up legs, looking ludicrously like a swimmer stranded by a suddenly retreating wave in the very act of propulsion. From underneath his face a dark stream was slowly reaching out, feeling a blunted way along the dusty floor, like a flattened worm.
As the crash of the double explosion thundered, reverberated, and was silent, a brief silence followed. Then from the dance hall poured a ruck of miners and women. The men who had flattened themselves jumped out to the centre of the room, gazing toward the body in the doorway. Calm and unashamed, the bartender rose from behind his barricade. The sound of running feet clattered on the wooden walk outside the saloon and the marshal of Skyfields, with one quick, shrewd glance at the dead man, stepped across the corpse and entered, alert, questioning, taking in instantly the little group at the far end of the bar where Stone supported Lyman. The latter had set back his gun into its holster and placed his right hand on his chest, hidden by his beard. He straightened up as the marshal came toward him.
"He drew first, Mara," said Lyman, his voice sounding as if he had been climbing hard and fast.
