Barry, before you die, I want to thank you!"
"You've followed me like a skunk," said Barry, "from the time you killed a
hoss that had never done no harm to you. You got on my trail when I was
livin' peaceable."
There was a tremendous beating on the outer door of the other room, but
Barry went on: "You took a gent that was livin' straight and you made a
sneak and a crook out of him and sent him to double-cross me. You ain't
worth livin'. You've spent your life huntin' men, and now you're at the end
of your trail. Think it over. You're ready to kill ag'in, but are you ready
to die?"
The little dusty man grew dustier still. His mouth worked.
"Damn you," he whispered, and went for his gun.
It was out, his finger on the trigger, the barrel whipping into line, when
the weapon in Barry's hand exploded. The sheriff spun on his heel and fell
on his face. Three times, as he lay there, dead in all except the
instinctive movement of his muscles, his right hand clawed at the empty
holster at his side. The sixth man had died for Grey Molly.
The outer door of Billy's room crashed to the floor, and heavy feet
thundered nearer.
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