"He knew I'd been lookin' for him for twelve years, an' I reckon he figgered I'd kill him on sight. He was wrong thar. I wanted to talk to him first. But he had the drop on me. The boys saw it, I reckon."
Half-a-dozen men corroborated. The bartender spoke authoritatively.
"That's straight, Mara. Lyman, here, was talking to his partners when the door opened and I see this chap givin' the crowd the once over. He drew his gun an', seein' the muzzle was gen'ally p'inted this way, an' I didn't know how good or bad a shot he was nor who he was aimin' at, for certain, I took no chances."
"You wouldn't," said the marshal, crisply but without malice.
"No, I wouldn't. But the guy pulled before Lyman even saw him. An' the old-timer nearly beat him to it at that."
The marshal nodded. He walked over to the body, stooped, took hold of an elbow, and turned it over. The level beams of the sunset flamed on the still features, a high-bridged nose, black brows, and a black beard and moustache. Fairly in the centre of the forehead was a dark pit where Lyman's bullet had targeted and from which the thick blood slowly oozed.
"Dead as a skinned woodchuck," said Mara. "Better get him out of the road, boys, and chuck a cloth over him."
Two loungers, swapping odd jobs about the saloon for occasional drinks, dragged the dead man out of
