Horror and questioning were written on the girl’s features, as she reached Caldwell’s side and flung herself on her knees beside the body. One glance told her what had happened, and she buried her face in her hands.
Meantime Bertram’s wavering attention had been attracted by another figure, following closely behind the girl. It was the figure of a youth, hardly taller than Alma Caldwell and nearly as slender. Yet, for all the newcomer’s youthfulness and slenderness, there was something so threatening in his attitude, as he approached more slowly than had the girl, that Bertram half raised his revolver. The boy, who was carrying a rifle, hesitated a moment, as if to bring the weapon to his shoulder.
“Stop!” said the girl, looking up. “Jimmy Coyle, put down that gun. You had no business to fire in the first place, without my telling you.”
“So that’s the person who shot at me, is it?” asked Bertram, lowering his weapon and turning toward the girl. “I’m glad you’ve stopped him from doing it any more, as it seems to me there’s been quite enough shooting around here to-day.”
The spreading crimson stain on the young Texan’s shirt front caught the girl’s eye. With an exclamation of concern she rose to her feet.
“It’s nothing worth bothering about,” the Texan said. “You’ve got sorrow enough on your hands, for I take it this man must have been your father. I just want to tell you that I don’t—I don’t——”
Bertram intended to say that he did not take her advice about quitting the expedition in Denver, and he had therefore been compelled to do so when it was a matter of more personal difficulty, but the words refused to shape themselves. The young Texan wiped the cold beads of agony from his forehead. His words came haltingly, and he swayed and fell in a faint beside the body of the man whom Swingley had dubbed the “king of the rustlers.”
The touch of cool water on his forehead revived the young Texan. He was lying on his back, with bis head comfortably pillowed on a rolled-up blanket. He was in the shade, and the branches of a tree waved between him and the sky. Then he found himself looking into the face of Alma Caldwell. He thought it was much pleasanter than looking at the sky or at trees, and he did not even blink for fear the vision would vanish.
The girl smiled at him faintly and said: “Your shoulder—how does it feel? Do you think you can ride?”
Bertram felt of his shoulder. To his surprise it was neatly bandaged, and the stained part of his shirt had been cut away. The numb sensation was gone from his side. He sat up.