“Blood,” observed Slimmy, oracularly, “them moral movements is like a hornet; they stings onct an' then they dies.”
Alma's attention was drawn to Mollie Squint—so called because of an optical slant which gave her a vague though piquant look. Mollie Squint was motioning from the outskirts of the little group. Alma pointed to the Dropper. Should she bring him? Mollie Squint shook her head.
Leaving the Dropper, Alma joined Mollie Squint.
“It's Johnny,” gasped Mollie Squint. “He wants you; he's over be that bunch of trees.”
Alma hung back; some impression of peril seized her.
“Better go,” whispered Mollie Squint. “He's onto you an' the Dropper, an' if you don't go he'll come lookin' for you. Then him an' the Dropper'll go to th' mat wit' each other, an' have it awful. Give Johnny one of your soft talks, an' mebby youse can smooth him down. Stall him off be tellin' him you'll see him to-night at Ding Dong's.”
Mollie Squint's advice seemed good, and as the lesser of two evils Alma decided to go. Mollie Squint did not accompany her.
“Tell th' Dropper I'll be back in a moment,” said Alma to Mollie Squint, “an' don't wise him up about Johnny.”
Alma met Spanish at the far corner of the clump of trees. There was no talk, no time for talk. They were all alone. As she drew near, he pulled a pistol and shot her through and through the body.
Alma's moaning cry was heard by the Dropper—that, and the sound of the shot. When the Dropper reached her, she was lying senseless in the shadow of the trees—a patch of white and red against the green of the grass. Spanish was nowhere in sight..