“They ain't any call for me to wear crepe yet,” answered Gregg. “Worst fool thing I ever done was to cut and run for it. The old Captain will tell you gents that Blondy went for his gun first—had it clean out of the leather before I touched mine.”
He paused, and the silence of those dark figures sank in upon him.
“I got to warn you,” said Pete Glass, “that what you say now can be used again you later on before the jury.”
“My God, boys,” burst out Vic, “d'you think I'm a plain, low-down, murderin' snake? Harry, ain't you got a word for me? Are you like the rest of 'em?”
No voice answered.
“Harry,” said Ronicky, “why don't you speak to him?”
It was a brutal thing to do, but Ronicky was never a gentle sort in his best moments; he scratched a match and held it so that under the spluttering light Gregg found himself staring into the face of Harry Fisher. And he could not turn his eyes away until the match burned down to Ronicky's finger tip and then dropped in a streak of red to the ground.
Then the sheriff spoke cold and hard.
“Partner,” he said, “in the old days, maybe your line of talk would do some good, but not now. You picked that fight with Blondy. You knew you was faster on the draw and Hansen didn't have a chance. He was the worst shot in Alder and everybody inAl-
