He rolled the dead man onto his back and then ripped his shirt open, the buttons popping one after another. Ritter stared at the corpse’s bloody chest and nodded. “Bonifaunt, bring the other one over here,” he said. Toohy did as he was told and Ritter treated the body as he had Claxton’s. “Look at this,” Ritter said, nudging Claxton with his toe. “What does it tell you?” “That he was shot twice,” Toohy said. “Look at the damned bullet holes. You could cover them both with a playing card. And this one”—a kick in the ribs this time—“shot in the center of the chest. He must have been as dead as a rotten stump when he hit the ground.” “Hired gun?” Toohy said. “It has to be,” Ritter said. “The damned swamper trash have got together and hired themselves a draw fighter.” Toohy considered that for a few moments and said, “I heard that Doc Holliday is in Fort Worth. Lafe Croucher is up El Paso way and Vic Moylan was in Crystal City last I heard. Moylan is always looking for work, supports a crippled brother.”
