“Pike said it was you,” Cyrus went on, “and that Lou was in the wagon. We always meant to git that hoss some day but—when I saw—Pike aim to kill Iry, I struck—up his arm and he—turned—on me and I—reckon he’s finished me.”
“It was Pike then. You hear that, boys,” said Ira. “I’m sorry, Cy, I’m sorry fer ye. Ye meant white by me if ye was on a bad business about the hoss. I ast yer pardon fer any hard feelin’s.”
“I desarve ’em,” said Cy. “I ain’t been—a good man—left my wife—and child—come here an’—done low down—tricks an’ was goin’ ter do—more of ’em.” He grew weaker and lay breathing painfully with closed eyes. After a time he whispered “Louisa.”
“Ole man,” said Ira, “I swar I’ll be good to yer gal, if that’s what you mean.”
“Don’t—tell—Lou—I was stealin’ the—hoss.”
“No, sir, I’ll not. You understand, boys. This here’s my wife’s father and I want to keep this here little transaction quiet.”
“We’ll not peep, Iry, not one of us,” his companions assured him.
Cyrus put out a feeble hand and Ira clasped it in his strong ones. “Tell Lou I didn’t mean——” the breath came shorter, then presently there was a new effort. “Pike knows—Steve——” And that was the last word.
It was a subdued and serious group that carried Cyrus Sparks, now dignified by death, to the nearest shelter. This happened to be Pedro’s cabin where Blythe Van Dorn lay wounded badly, but not dangerously it was hoped. Here John and his sisters, with Louisa, had attended to the young man’s wounds and he was fairly comfortable. Ira and his friends laid their lifeless burden outside on the grass and called John, telling him of what had happened. Then Ira faced his next duty. “I’d like to see Lou,” he said. “John, you send her out to me, and you boys go off fer a while.” He waited with folded arms till the girl appeared.
“You wanted me, Ira?” she said, coming up and slipping her hand in his.