I could see Ledwich against the whitewashed fence—throwing the back gate open, plunging through it into the alley.
O’Gar’s squat bulk appeared under a light at the end of the alley.
Ledwich’s revolver was in his hand. O’Gar’s wasn’t—not quite.
Ledwich’s gun swung up—the hammer clicked.
O’Gar’s gun coughed fire.
Ledwich fell with a slow revolving motion over against the white fence, gasped once or twice, and went down in a pile.
I walked slowly down the stairs to join O’Gar; slowly, because it isn’t a nice thing to look at a man you’ve desperately sent to his death. Not even it it’s the surest way of saving an innocent life, and if the man who dies is a Jake Ledwich—altogether treacherous.
“How come?” O’Gar asked, when I came into the alley, where he stood looking down at the dead man.
“He got out on me,” I said simply.
“He must’ve.”
I stooped and searched the dead man’s pockets until I found the suicide note, still crumpled in the handkerchief. O’Gar was examining the dead man’s revolver.
“Lookit!” he exclaimed. “Maybe this ain’t my lucky day! He snapped at me once, and his gun missed fire. No wonder! Somebody must’ve been using an ax on it—the firing pin’s broke clean off!”