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her, he could tell that she was dead. And the twist of her head suggested that it was the result of a broken neck.
    “Now, you bitch, you ain’t goin’ nowhere, are you?” Shorty said, staring down the stairs toward her.
    Then, suddenly, Shorty’s face registered surprise. He’d realized that Cindy was dead. He looked at the others in the saloon; Bob Gary, who was behind the bar washing glasses; John Harder, still standing by the table he had shared with Hawke; Betty Lou, standing in the door of the kitchen; as well as half a dozen customers who had been quietly eating their breakfast. On the landing above, four of the other working girls, drawn by the noise, had come to the railing and now stood looking down at Cindy’s still and twisted form on the floor below.
    “I…I didn’t do this,” Shorty said, pointing down at Cindy. “You all seen it. It was an accident. She fell down the stairs.”
    “You were chasing her,” Bob Gary said as he put down thetowel and glass he was working on. “She wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t been chasing her.”
    “I was chasing her because this bitch stole my money,” he said, pointing at her prone form.
    “Cindy didn’t steal your money, cowboy,” one of other the girls said.
    “Oh yeah? Well, what happened to it?”
    “You spent it all last night,” the girl insisted. “You didn’t even have enough to go upstairs with Cindy until you borrowed some from a couple of your friends.”
    The cowboy put his hands to his head. “I…I…” he started, then drew his pistol and waved the gun around, threatening everyone in the room.
    “This was an accident,” he said. “You all saw it. This was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill her, and I ain’t goin’ to get hung by no lynch mob that doesn’t even know what they are doin’.”
    “I don’t blame you,” Bob said from behind the bar, speaking in a low, calming voice. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you put your gun away and wait for Marshal Trueblood to get here? I’m sure it can be worked out.”
    “No! I ain’t goin’ to jail!” Shorty said. He started down the stairs.
    “Cowboy, wait! You’re making a mistake,” Bob said. “You need to stay and work this out!”
    “You go to hell!” Shorty shouted, and shot at Bob, hitting the bartender in the shoulder.
    The impact of the bullet knocked Bob back against the shelf of mirrored whiskey bottles, shattering the mirror and sending the bottles tumbling down, to break on the floor.
    Hawke had watched the scene quickly deteriorate. Now he pointed his finger at the cowboy.
    “Shorty! Put your gun down before you make things any worse!” he ordered.
    “Ain’t no damn piano player goin’ to tell me what to do!” Shorty shouted. He swung his gun toward Hawke and fired, his bullet frying the air no more than an inch from Hawke’sear. Hawke, whose gun had been in his holster, now drew it so quickly that to the witnesses in the room it seemed as if it had appeared in his hand by magic.
    Hawke returned fire, and his bullet hit the cowboy high in the chest. With a gasp of surprise, Shorty fell forward, tumbling down the rest of the stairs, winding up on the floor alongside Cindy. He raised himself up on his elbows.
    “Kilt by a piano player,” he said. “Who would’ve thought?” Then he fell forward and lay quietly.
    Shortly afterward, Trueblood, with pistol drawn, came running in through the front door. He saw Cindy and Shorty lying at the foot of the stairs. Behind the bar, Bob was holding his hand over a bleeding wound in his shoulder. Hawke had already put his own pistol back in the holster.
    The marshal stood just inside the door for a long moment, taking everything in.
    “Hello, Matthew,” Harder said.
    “Marshal Trueblood,” Bob said.
    The calmness of the greetings told Trueblood that everything was over now, so he put his pistol away.
    “Someone want to tell me what went on here?”
    “It all started with the cowboy there,” Harder