An iron hard hand took a grip on the back of Tom Wallace's neck.  Another one seized his wrist and aimed the gun at the ceiling.  With hardly any effort, John lifted the grief stricken farmer off the floor.  "I'd be obliged if you'd drop that gun, Tom," he said in a voice that seemed far softer than the voice of a man that big had any right to be.  "Things would be a might more peaceful without all the shooting."<br/><br/>Chen hadn't had dynamite, not for a month or more.  It really hadn't mattered.  John didn't<em>need</em>it.  He just wanted some.  He'd taken his bundle of goods, including the new shotgun (still unloaded) and had headed for Cartwright's.  Tom had stopped just inside the door and it was mere coincidence that he'd gone in ahead of John.  He wasn't able to stop him from opening fire but he could certainly stop him from continuing to fire.  The only problem would come if some one in the saloon decided to return fire.  Accuracy with a pistol wasn't a common skill despite how common the weapons were; nobody could afford to throw away money on the ammunition in order to get good.  Somebody who fancied himself a crack shot after a few drinks was as likely to put a slug into John's chest as they were Tom's.<br/><br/>His eyes fell on the overturned table and the pool of blood on the floor.  "Aw, now look at that, Tom," John said, his Louisiana twang full of sorry.  "You've done shot Arnold.  What would you go and do a thing like that for?"  If Arnold was dead, that meant Tom would be getting the noose.