Tex Mannion dove for cover and came up behind the water trough, both six-shooters drawn.
“I know that’s you, Curly Bob!” he called. “Show yourself you bushwackin’ son of a bitch.”
Curtains fluttered in an upstairs window of the hotel. Tex stood and emptied his Colts.
Later, at the poker table, Tex admitted to the other players that it had been pure dumb luck that that whiskey salesman had landed on top of Curly Bob.