advantage of studying with an expert, the way I had. As it was, I had all the time in the world. I could have shot him twice before the front sight of his pistol cleared his holster, and Kreyler knew it. I guess there was an instant there when he was already seeing himself frying in hell, because his eyes got that sick look and he lost heart and didn't even try to get his pistol out.
There's one thing about gun fighting, when you start shooting it's hard to stop. The first thing a gunman learns is to start shooting the minute his hand hits the gun butt—that is, he starts cocking his pistol the instant he starts his draw. If he's good enough he's got his pistol cocked and is squeezing the trigger by the time he clears leather, and from then on it's almost automatic. You cock again as the gun goes down from recoil, shoot again, cock again, until you're out of ammunition.
That's the way it usually goes. That's the way Kreyler expected it to go this time, and from the way he looked, he was already feeling the shovels hit him in the face as they covered him up in some boothill grave. But about that time something stopped me. I broke off right in the middle of the cock-trigger action and just stood there looking at him.
For a while he didn't believe it. And neither did I. I couldn't think of any good reason why I shouldn't shoot him. He had been drawing on me. He and the fat man had set a nice little trap for me. On top of that, I should have shot him just because of the principle of the thing, if for no other reason, because in the school I had attended they taught never to pull a gun on a man unless you meant to kill him.
This was the second time I had pulled on Kreyler. And he wasn't dead yet.
But finally I began to understand what had happened. In the heat of the fight I had forgotten that Kreyler was a U.S. marshal, and I guess it was instinct alone that held my trigger finger just in time.
After a minute Kreyler began to realize why I hadn't killed him, and I think it crossed his mind that maybe he could make his draw and shoot me while I was worrying about it. But it was just a fleeting thought. I didn't want to kill him, but I would if he forced it. And he knew it.
No more than two or three seconds had passed since I had put a bullet into Basset, but at that moment it seemed like years ago. I realized that I had been holding my breath, so now I let it go.
I said, “Just move easy, unbuckle your belt, and kick your pistol over here.” —
He hesitated a moment, then his pistol hit the floor and he kicked it over. I heard somebody running in the saloon, so I stepped over to the door and saw the bartender diving under the bar. After a shotgun, I figured. But he got peaceful when he saw me standing there, and all he came up with was a rag.
“Go over to one of those tables,” I said, “and sit there until I think of something for you to do.”
His Adam's apple went up and down a few times, as if he were trying to swallow his stomach, then he went over to a table and sat down, still holding onto the rag. Then there was a commotion outside the saloon and in a minute Bama and Marta came bursting through the batwings. They hurried on back and stopped at the doorway of Basset's office, looking in.
“My God,” Bama said weakly. He wiped his hand across his mouth, looking as if he needed a drink. Marta didn't do anything except stare at me.
I said, “Keep an eye on the bartender, Bama. How much racket did I make?”
“Plenty,” he gulped. “My God, did you have to kill him?”
“Of course I had to kill him. He was getting ready to shoot me with that derringer in his cigar box.”
I turned them and glanced at Basset for the first time. He was sprawled out in his chair, as formless as three hundred pounds of lard in a hot room, and getting more formless all the time. There was a black little hole about nine inches below his left shoulder, but there wasn't any blood to speak of.
I said, “You've been around here a while, Bama. How much excitement is this going to cause?”
“Plenty when Basset's men find out. That will take a little time, though. We heard the shooting upstairs, but I doubt if anybody else did.”
“Anyway, that gives us some time to figure out something. First there's the silver. I'm going to get my cut of that before I do anything else.”
Bama had opened Basset's cigar box. Something happened to his face as he stared into it. I don't know just what it was, but suddenly he looked very tired and very old. I pulled the box over and had a look at it. Then I heard myself saying, “Well, I'll be damned.”
There hadn't been any derringer in it, after all.
It was a shock at first. Then it occurred to me that it had been a lot bigger shock to Basset. There was something in it that seemed funny to me at just that moment, and I laughed a little and said again, “Well, I'll be damned. There wasn't any gun in there at all, he was just reaching for a cigar.”
Bama looked at me with those old eyes. “You can kill a man like that, and then laugh at it?”
I was keyed up, I guess, or I wouldn't have paid any attention to him. But as it was, it went all over me.
I said, “What are
It hit him like a kick in the gut, and I was sorry after I had said it. I would have taken it back if I could, but I couldn't, so I tried to pass it off the best way I could.
“Why don't you go on out and take a look at the bartender?” I said. “If anybody comes into the saloon, let me know.”
That left me with Kreyler, and the problem of what to do with him. But first there was the silver, so I said, “All right, where does Basset keep his money?”
Kreyler gave me a flat look. “He doesn't keep any money, not here. After a raid he has it expressed to a bank in Tucson, under another name.”
“But he must have some money here,” I said. “Enough to pay me what he owes me.” I dumped Basset out of his chair and he hit the floor like a wagonload of mud. Then I began going through the drawers of his desk until I found what I was looking for.
