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.

Barry ran to the window and whistled once, very high and thin.