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"He's loco. Wants to borrow a gun." The rancher turned to Sundown. "See here, Sun, there's no use thinking you've got to take a hand in this. Some of the boys'll get the Mexican sure! I can't stop them, but I don't want you to get in trouble." "No. You come on in and eat," said Wingle. "You got a touch of sun, I guess." Sundown mounted. "Ain't you goin' to do nothin'?" he asked again.
The herder's tent was torn to ribbons. Wingle, trailing behind the herd, dismounted, and, stooping, disarmed the bruised and battered Mexican who had struggled to his feet as he rode up. From the water-hole came shouts, and Corliss saw several men come running from the house to seize their horses and ride out toward the cattle.
The rancher, busy running up totals on the pay-roll, glanced at the sweat-stained piece of paper. He read it and pushed it from him. "All right, Hi." Wingle hesitated, then stepped out and over to the bunk-house. "Takes it mighty cool! Wonder what he's got up his sleeve. Somethin' sure!" Corliss studied the note. Then he reached for paper and envelopes and wrote busily.
Shoop turned the body over. "Got it from in front," he said, which was obvious to their experienced eyes. "And it took a fast gun to get him," asserted Loring. The men were silent, each visualizing his own theory of the fight on the trail and the killing of Fadeaway. "Jack was layin' a long way from here," said Wingle. "When you found him," commented Loring.
Shorty, vomiting blood, wiped his lips on his sleeve. "Well, I ain't not yet," he gasped. "I'm goin' to finish in a blaze of glory. Come on, boys!" And he whirled his horse. Swaying drunkenly he spurred around the corner of the house and through the gateway. Corliss glanced at Wingle. "We can't let him ride into 'em by his lonesome," said Wingle. "Eh, boys?"
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