"Thar's a quaver in Dead Shot's voice, Peets tells me, that's like a pra'r.
"'Thar's my hand, Dead Shot,' says Enright, who's chokin' a little. 'So far as the letter man's concerned, it'll be the altar or the windmill, Jack Moore an' a lariat or that preacher party you refers to.'
"Dead Shot's gettin' mighty weak. After Enright promises he leans back like he's takin' a rest. He's so still they're beginnin' to figger he's done cashed in; but all at once he starts 32 up like he's overlooked some bet, an' has turned back from eternity to tend to it.
"'About Cherokee an' his box,' he whispers; 'that's a lyin' bluff I makes. Tell him I don't mean nothin'; I'm only out to draw his fire.'
"After this Dead Shot only rouses once. His voice ain't more'n a sigh.
"'I forgets to tell you,' he says, 'to give her my love. An' you say, too, that I'm bumped off like snuffin' out a candle––too plumb quick for her to get yere. An' don't blame her, gents; it's not her fault, it's mine.'
"It's the week after the fooneral. The postmaster's still in town, partly by nacheral preference, partly because Enright notifies Jack Moore to ride herd on him, an' fill him as full of lead as a bag of bullets in event he ondertakes to go stampedin' off.
"In the Red Light the seventh evenin' Enright rounds up Peets.
"'Doc,' he says, 'a month would be more respect'ble, but this yere's beginnin' to tell on me.'
"'Besides,' Peets chips in, by way of he'pin' Enright out, 'that preacher sharp corraled over 33 to Missis Rucker's is gettin' restless. Onless we side-lines or puts hobbles on that divine we-all can't expect to go holdin' him much longer.'