The slug slammed into the young man’s right shoulder and he staggered back. He stumbled and fell to the street, landing on his butt. He had pulled his six-gun from leather on the way down. The pistol cracked and Ben shot himself in the right foot, blowing off several toes. “Oh, God!” he hollered, dropping his pistol to the dirt of the street. “I done shot myself! Oh, Lord. I blowed my own foot off!” He reached for his six-gun again just as Frank approached and kicked the pistol away, out of Ben’s reach. “You’ve had enough, boy,” Frank told him. Ben fell over in the dirt and cussed. Sheriff Davis and his deputies had walked out of the hotel to stand on the boardwalk and witness the entire affair. Doc Evans came out of his office, carrying his medical bag. He walked out into the street. The doctor knelt down beside the wounded young man, took one look, and called to a group of men standing on the boardwalk in front of the Bluebird Café. “Some of you boys carry this man over to my office, please.
