"Well," muttered Fatty Matthews, "all these birds get it. And Jerry was
some overdue. Lew, you seen it?"
"Yep."
"Some drunken bum do it?"
Lew leaned to the ear of the kneeling marshal and whispered briefly.
Fatty opened his eyes and cursed until his panting forced him to break
off and hum.
"Beat him to the draw?" he gasped at length.
"Jerry's gun was clean out before the stranger made a move," asserted
Lew.
"It ain't possible," murmured the deputy, and hummed softly:
_"In all my dreams, your fair face beams."_
He added sharply, as he finished the bandaging: "Where'd he head for?"
"No place," answered Lew. "He just now went out the door."
The deputy swore again, but he added, enlightened; "Going to plead
self-defense, eh?"
Big O'Brien leaned over the bar.
"Listen, Fatty," he said earnestly, "There ain't no doubt of it. Jerry
had his war-paint on. He tried to kill this feller Barry's wolf."
"Wolf?" cut in the deputy marshal.
"Dog, I guess," qualified the bartender. "I dunno. Anyway, Jerry made
all the leads; this Barry simply done the finishing. I say, don't put
this Barry under arrest. You want to keep him here for Mac Strann."
"That's my business," growled Fatty. "Hey, half a dozen of you gents.
Hook on to Jerry and take him up to a room. I'll be with you in a
minute."
And while his directions were being obeyed he trotted heavily up the
length of the barroom and out the swinging doors.
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