“The sheriff swapped shots with the bank-robber that mornin’ and the sheriff was sure he hit the man. Gentlemen, he did, but it wasn’t Hooty Edwards. The man he hit went to a doctor for treatment of a gunshot wound next day, but not to Doc Boardman. He was scared to do that.” There was a long silence in that big room. Every eye was on Skeeter Bill, waiting for him to continue. He moved his long legs, pulling his feet in close to his chair. Then he said in a brittle voice: “Slim Lacey, keep yore hands in sight.” Suddenly Skeeter Bill flung himself sideways, landing on his knees, six feet away from the witness chair just as a bullet smashed into the back of the chair. Johnny Greer, hunched behind Slim Lacey, had drawn a gun, unnoticed by anybody, except Skeeter Bill, who had seen his shoulder action. Skeeter Bill’s gun flamed from his kneeling position, the bullet slashing across Lacey’s shoulder, but centering Greer. The room was instantly in an uproar. Keenan, in the jury box, flung a man away from in front of him, giving him room to shoot. He fairly screamed: “You dirty bloodhound, I’ll--” Skeeter’s gun flamed again, and Keenan went to his knees over empty chairs, flinging his gun ahead of him. Men were clawing at each other, crashing over chairs, trying to get away from the line of fire. Someone yelled: “Slim Lacey is gettin’ away! Stop him!” There was no chance to get through that milling crowd. Skeeter Bill whirled to the front windows. They were not built to be opened, but Skeeter hurled a chair through one of them, and went out onto the sidewalk as Slim Lacey ran from the entrance. The gambler saw Skeeter Bill, whirled, gun in hand, but caught his heel and went flat on his back, firing one shot straight into the air, before Skeeter’s toe caught the gun and kicked it halfway across the street. Men were piling out of the courthouse. Skeeter yanked the gambler to his feet. Al Creedon and Muddy Poole had fought their way loose from the crowd, and came running. One of the men was the gray-haired prosecutor, who had sent Hooty Edwards to the penitentiary, and his face was just a little white. “I’ll talk!” panted the frightened Lacey, cringing at the expression of the faces around him. “I--I didn’t kill anybody. I gave Hooty the dope in his drink, but Keenan paid me to do it. I put it in his last drink, when he said he was going home.” “Keep goin’,” said Skeeter Bill tensely. * * * * * The gambler blurted out his confession hastily, in a high-pitched voice. “Sam Keenan was broke, and he robbed the bank, and put the deadwood on Hooty Edwards. He--he wanted Edwards’ wife. Then Keenan bought the Seven-Up and the New York Chop House. I didn’t own the saloon, but everybody thought I did.” “Why did they try to kill me?” asked Skeeter Bill.