“The first rule,” I told her, “is never to let anything interfere with your meals, if you can help it.”
An overalled man came in from the street.
“Nisbet’s been killed down in Bardell’s!” he yelled.
To Bardell’s Border Palace Milk River and I went, half the diners running ahead of us, with half the town.
We found Nisbet in the back room, stretched out on the floor, dead. A hole that a .45 could have made was in his chest, which the men around him had bared.
Bardell’s fingers gripped my arm.
“Never give him a chance, the dogs!” he cried thickly. “Cold murder!”
“He say anything before he died?”
“No. He was dead when we got to him.”
“Who shot him?”
“One of the Circle H.A.R. , you can bet your neck on that!”
“Didn’t anybody see it?”
“Nobody here admits they saw it.”
“How did it happen?”
“Mark was out front. Me and Chick and five or six of these men were there. Mark came back here. Just as he stepped through the door—bang!”
Bardell shook his fist at the open window.