his knock and pettish: "Oh, I say now! Open this damn door, will you?"
That woman in the hotel—he could not think even in his extremity a man could be so base—was still shooting, and he had to go that way to get to the door of the hardware store next beyond, where a zinc washtub was standing on a barrel in front. He went on, annoyed by the shooting from the window, but not greatly concerned otherwise. The door was locked, and if anybody skulked inside he was too cowardly or vindictive to open it.
A crowd of men appeared at the corner of the hotel prancing fantastically, shooting straight in the air, it seemed to Tom. What silly asses the fellows were making of themselves, throwing their legs and arms in that outlandish dance!
Then the tipping world steadied a moment. They were not shooting in the air, but at him. A bullet hit the washtub, clanging loudly, jarring it a little from its unsteady place on the barrel. Tom sagged down behind the barrel, hoping it had salt in it, pushed the washtub off, trained his pistol over the top and began to shoot.
But that feeling of obscuration was pressing around him; there was a streak of fire running through his head. He was still pulling the trigger, his last shot going through the rusty tin dipper hanging at the end of the hardware sign, when he began falling, falling, dropping down from immeasurable heights; struck darkness, and lay still.
He did not hear the clatter of feet on the planks, nor the whoop of triumph as the crowd rushed him from the corner of the hotel; nor the break of galloping horses as
