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"I'm short a teamster, and I'll give you the chance to make good. Go and get supper with the hands." Ross Shanklin's voice was very husky, and he spoke with an effort. "All right. I'll make good. Where can I get a drink of water and wash up?"

"I'm short a teamster, and I'll give you the chance to make good. Go and get supper with the hands." Ross Shanklin's voice was very husky, and be spoke with an effort. "All right. I'll make good. Where can I get a drink of water and wash up?" Josiah Childs was ordinarily an ordinary-appearing, prosperous business man.

The chief of police, remiss in his high duty, should have been there to sustain Shanklin's hand, according to their gentlemanly agreement when the partnership was formed. He arrived too late. Shanklin was gone, and from the turmoil in the tent the chief concluded that he had trimmed somebody in his old-fashioned, comfortable way.

That must have been the very spot of its location, with the divided wall of the tent back of him, through which he had disappeared on the night that Walker lost his money and Shanklin dropped his dice. Of course. That was the explanation. The little cube in Slavens' palm was one of Shanklin's honest dice, with which he tolled on the suckers. He had lost one of them in his precipitate retreat. Dr.

They are doing humanity a great service in smoothing the desert and bringing the water into it." "We will leave it to them," she said. They tramped across the claim until they came in sight of Hun Shanklin's tent. Its flap was blowing in the wind. "The old rascal came over to make friends with me," said Slavens. "He claimed that he never lifted his hand against me.

His teeth showed between his parted lips; he carried his right arm in front, crooked at the elbow, his fingers curved. Slavens saw that all thought of the coat had gone but of Shanklin's mind. The old gambler did not so much as turn his head. Slavens threw the coat across his saddle as Boyle came up.

I hated to go and leave you here alone with that feller" jerking his head toward Shanklin's body "for I wouldn't trust him dead no more than I would alive!" "All right," said Slavens, scarcely looking up. Ten-Gallon appeared to be over his anxiety to leave. He waited in front of the tent as the sound of horses came nearer. "Stop them off there a little way," ordered the doctor.

Slavens gave him a list of articles needed in the patient's case, and the Governor rode away. The undertaker from Comanche arrived a little later, and took Hun Shanklin's body up from the ground. When his wagon, on its return to Comanche, had passed the tent where Agnes was trying to sleep, she got up and joined Dr. Slavens. "I couldn't sleep," she explained.

As he stripped Boyle's clothing off to bare the wound, Slavens ordered Ten-Gallon to go and see whether the old gambler had paid his last loss. "I won't touch him! I won't lay a hand on him!" Ten-Gallon refused, drawing back in alarm. Boyle was not dead, though Shanklin's bullet had struck him perilously near the heart and had passed through his body.

Governor Boyle approached Ten-Gallon and pointed to Hun Shanklin's body. "You must do something to get that carcass out of camp right away," he said. "Isn't there a deputy coroner at Comanche?" "The undertaker is," said Ten-Gallon, drawing back at the prospect of having to lay hands on the body of the man whom he feared in death as he had feared him in life.