was safe. But there were two windows in the bar on that side, set in the wall a little above the height of a man to insure the safety of patrons against such hilarious or malicious shots as their shining mark might provoke. A man on horseback might hit the middle of the floor by riding close to these windows, but those on the inside could not even see riders as they passed.
Now somebody, either overly secure in his retreat or rash beyond common sense, pulled a table or some high piece of furniture near one of these windows and began to fire on the men before the door. Fortunately the shooter's field of vision was not large, and nobody was directly in it, but this act of insolence instantly won over some of the homesteaders who had dissented to Waco Johnson's proposed scheme of action to empty that nest of villainy and retreat of vice. They said go ahead. But Waco would give them another chance. He went to the front door and summoned Kane by name.
Kane was in a rage. He was obscenely defiant, apparently drunk and past any sensible consideration of his situation. This thing never had happened before in Drumwell; he did not appear to be able to understand that it had happened now. But somebody was arguing with him; a woman, her voice terrified and pleading. His wife, Waco believed. He stepped aside to give her time.
Kane's passion arose with her appeal to open the door and turn the gun-slingers out. He replied to her pleading with a mocking laugh. There was further talk, and a scuffle, as if she clung to him; a rough answer, a curse, the sound of a blow. Waco Johnson turned back to his men.
