There came the crash and tinkle of broken
glass, one of the small panes of the window beside which Thornton had
been reading dropped out, and almost before the falling pieces had
ceased to rattle against the bare floor he heard the sound of running
footsteps behind him. The man who had fired had made sure with one shot.
Then Thornton heard the Kid cry out, his voice hoarse and inarticulate,
and with the cry came a moan from Charley Bedloe. Charley staggered half
across the room, his two big hands going automatically to his hips. He
had come close to his younger brother, staring at him with wide eyes,
and then slipped forward and down, quiet and limp and dead.
Thornton's one first emotion, one so natural to a man who takes his
fight in the open, was a boundless rage toward the man who had murdered
another man in this cold blooded fashion, taking his grim toll from the
darkness and without warning. He whirled about, his own gun blazing in
his hand, and as fast as his finger could work the trigger sent six
shots after the flying footsteps.
The footsteps were gone. Again the cowboy looked swiftly in at the
window. He saw that Charley Bedloe was dead; the Kid, his face
contorted, hideously twisted to his blended rage and grief, stood
staring about him helplessly.
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