"Bueno. You have not the power; I have. I make not the complaint to
Fiddletown. I make the complaint to Jose Perez, to Manuel, to Antonio,
to Sanchicha--she is a strong one! I say 'Chook him out.' They chook him
out! they remove him! He does not r-r-remain. Enough. Bueno. Gracias,
senor, good-a-by!"

She was gone. For the next four days Parks was in a state of some
anxiety--but it appeared unnecessarily so. Whether the interview had
become known along the river did not transpire, but there seemed to be
no reason for Miss Mendez to enforce her rules. It was said that once,
when Thompson of Angels was a little too noisy, he had been quietly
conducted by his friends from the tienda without the intervention of
Jose. The frequenters of the saloon became its police.

Yet the event--long protracted--came at last! It was a dry, feverish,
breezeless afternoon, when the short, echoless explosion of a revolver
puffed out on the river, followed by another, delivered so rapidly that
they seemed rolled into one. There was no mistaking that significant
repetition. ONE shot might have been an accident; TWO meant intention.
The men dropped their picks and shovels and ran--ran as they never
before ran in Buckeye--ran mechanically, blindly groping at their belts
and pockets for the weapons that hung there no longer; ran aimlessly,
as to purpose, but following instinctively with hurried breath and
quivering nostrils the cruel scent of powder and blood. Ran
until, reaching the tienda, the foremost stumbled over the body of
Shuttleworth; came upon the half-sitting, half-leaning figure of
Saunders against its adobe wall! The doors were barred and closed, and
even as the crowd charged furiously forward, a window was sharply shut
above, in their very face.