He could not believe himself clear of that trouble with Kellogg, or understand the town's cool and unconcerned acceptation of the outcome. He thought of a coroner's inquest, of a summons and questioning; of a grand jury and a court. Then he remembered that Pawnee Bend was in territory beyond the jurisdiction of organized law. It seemed to be the rule there that if a man stood on the defensive and won, that ended the case. They simply carried the unfortunate party away and the victor went about his business unchallenged in the public regard.
But it was not so easy for Bill Dunham to obliterate a finished problem of that gravity from the slate and go ahead as before. It had seared him deeply, it bore on him like a galled place, bending his spirits down, troubling him to the core.
When he slept at last it was to fight over again the battle with Kellogg; to slip out of MacKinnon's door on tiptoe, edge along the wall to the corner and try to draw his gun against some cloying influence that bound his hand at his side. Or, weapon out, only to see a futile dribble from its muzzle, and the mocking insult of Kellogg's eyes as he threw down his gun to fire.
So it went, sweating, groaning, tossing; starting from his harassed sleep to wonder where he was, confused for a moment, staring out of the open door. Then to sigh, lie down and try it again, and wear the night out wearily at last, to rise dispirited, and so burdened by remorse that he would have leaped for joy if Shad Brassfield had arrived with the news that Kellogg had risen up from his cooling-board with a sardonic grin.
