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A smoking gun lay near his inert hand. The other man had fallen on his face. His garb proclaimed him a Mexican. He was not yet dead. Then Helen, as she felt Dale's arm encircle her, looked farther, because she could not prevent it looked on at that strange figure against the bar this boy who had been such a friend in her hour of need this naive and frank sweetheart of her sister's.
Jimmie Dale had already passed the first one the next would be Markel's then and it loomed ahead of him now, black and shadowy and unlighted. Jimmie Dale shot a glance around him there was stillness, quiet everywhere no sign of life no sound. Jimmie Dale's face became tense, his lips tight and he stepped suddenly from the sidewalk in among the trees.
It might perhaps prove a matter of indifference to Elizabeth and to England, when the Queen should be a state-prisoner in Spain and the Inquisition quietly established in her kingdom, whether the world should admit or not, in case of his decease, the superiority of Dr. Dale's logic and latin to those of his antagonists.
Owen grinned, and with the deliberation that had marked the previous blow he again brought the rifle stock down, smashing the remaining hand. That, too, disappeared, and Dale's screaming curses filled the cabin. Owen waited. Twice more the hands came up, and twice more Owen crushed them with the rifle butt. At last, though Owen waited for some time, the hands came up no more.
"A graveyard meeting," repeated the saloon-keeper. "Well, and that's what it is in a manner of speaking." Racey stared. "I bite. What's the answer?" The saloon-keeper cleared his throat. "Old Dale's been killed." "Has, huh? Who killed him?" Racey allowed his eyes casually to skim the expressionless faces of the men backed against the walls. "A stranger killed him," replied McFluke, heavily.
The Pippin, threading his way amongst the tables, gained the door, and passed out into the street. And then Jimmie Dale's eyes reverted to the piece of paper under the adjacent table. It was not at all likely that it was of the slightest importance or significance, and yet Jimmie Dale stretched out his foot, drew the paper toward him, and, stooping over, picked it up.
She seemed to listen with a dawning terror creeping over her features, and then her hands went piteously to the thin hair behind her ears. The man motioned toward a door at the rear of the store. She hesitated, then came out from behind the counter, and swayed a little as though her limbs would not support her weight. Jimmie Dale's lips thinned.
"All such actions mean ill for the settlers," growled Dale. "They'd best finish at once." Davis did not have to incur his neighbors' ill-will by asking the dancers to cease their ceremony, as Dale's speech was closely followed by a volley from the west side of the clearing. A dancer went down, coughing and clawing at his throat, while yelps of surprise and pain told me others had been wounded.
A limousine drew up, and Benson, Jimmie Dale's chauffeur, opened the door. "Home, Mr. Dale?" he asked cheerily, touching his cap. "Yes, Benson home," said Jimmie Dale absently, and stepped into the car.
That was a trial for Joan, when she walked out into the light in Dandy Dale's clothes. She did not step very straight, and she could feel the cold prick of her face under the mask. It was not shame, but fear that gripped her. She would rather die than have Jim Cleve recognize her in that bold disguise.
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