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A drawling voice made them both turn quickly. "As an entirely impartial and unbiased spectator, friend, I should say that you are outclassed." The man addressed himself to Mullendore. The stranger unobserved had entered by the corral gate. He was a typical sheepherder in looks if not in speech, even to the collie that stood by his side.
A virulent case of spotted fever, it was pronounced by "Doc" Fussel, who doubted that he would recover. "I'd knock him in the head and put him to bed with a shovel, if 'twere me," Bowers had grumbled when he had helped move Pete Mullendore over to Kate's headquarters. "We've got to make him talk," Kate had replied grimly. "We've got to get the truth somehow, Bowers, before he goes."
Taylor overlook temporarily that she had been insulted, and she hastened with Teeters to the dying man's side. Emaciated, yellow, Mullendore was lying with closed eyes when they entered. "Say, feller " said Teeters, hoping to rouse him. Only Mullendore's faint breathing told them that he was living. Mrs. Taylor laid her hand upon his damp forehead and withdrew it quickly. "The po-oo-or soul!
"I want these folks to know what that yella-back has been keepin' to himself all these years for some reason that only himself and the Almighty knows. He owned the gun that killed Mormon Joe! He sold it to the 'breed, Mullendore! He could have proved Kate Prentiss's innocence any time he wanted to and he kept his mouth shut!
I'll sing something." "It might help to git ong rapport with the sperrits," agreed Teeters. As Mrs. Taylor droned a familiar camp-meeting hymn, Mullendore opened his eyes and looked at her dully: "Who are you?" he whispered. Mrs. Taylor quavered, "I've come to bring the Truth to you." Mullendore looked at her, uncomprehending.
Kate and Bowers walked on without comment upon the incident, but when they had reached the yard, Bowers detached himself from Kate's side and made a rush to the nearest light where, turning his back with a secretive air, he took from the inner pocket of his inside coat the worn and yellowed photograph that Mullendore had recognized in Bowers's wagon. He looked at it long and hard.
The clock, ticking loudly on its nail, said midnight, and still Mullendore, deaf and blind to all save the fantastic world into which he stared, mumbled incoherently. At last, unable longer to sit quietly, Kate arose and leaned over him. "Do you remember the Sand Coulee, Pete? the Sand Coulee Roadhouse where you used to stop?" she asked softly.
While Kate hung the harness on its peg, Mullendore, waited for her outside. "My! My! Katie," he leered at her as she came back, "but you're gettin' to be a big girl! Them legs looked like a couple of pitchfork handles when I went away, and now the shape they've got!"
"Say it quick!" He muttered thickly: "What for?" "You're a liar, Pete Mullendore!" she taunted. "You don't know. You haven't any idea where Katie Prentice's father lives!" The gibe brought no response; yet slowly, so gradually that it was not possible to tell when it began, a look that was wholly rational came into his eyes.
Mother," with entreaty in her voice, "won't you settle him if he gets fresh?" Jezebel only laughed and as the gate of the corral scraped when Mullendore pulled it open to herd a saddle horse and pack ponies through, she called out in her harsh croak: "Hello, Pete!" "Hello yourself," he answered, but he looked at her daughter.
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