While he pulled saddle and bridle off the dead horse, Burt Brownlee talked and talked and talked. He wanted more whisky, which Lance promised him he should have when he was ready to get on the horse. He told further evidence against the Devil’s Tooth, told how he had followed Tom for two days only to see him later at the ranch where he had returned while Burt had for a time lost the trail. On that trip, he said, he would have gotten the full details of one “job” had he not turned off to follow Tom Lorrigan.
While he worked Lance listened stoically. When he was ready to start he led Sorry close, lifted the fellow as tenderly as he could, saw him faint again with the pain, and somehow got him on the horse while he was still unconscious. Burt Brownlee was a big man, but he was not of great weight. Lance bound him to the saddle with his own riata, revived him with a little more whisky, and started for Conley’s, who lived nearest.
It was ten miles to Conleys, as riders guessed the distance. Lance walked and led Sorry, and tried to hold Burt Brownlee in the saddle, and listened to his rambling talk, and gave him more whisky when he seemed ready to die. During certain intervals when Burt seemed lucid enough to realize his desperate condition, Lance heartened him with assurance that they were almost there.
On the way into the canyon Burt Brownlee suffered greatly on the steep trail, down which the horse must go with forward joltings that racked terribly the man’s crushed side. The whisky was gone; he had finished the scanty supply at the canyon’s crest, because he begged for it so hard that Lance could not steel himself to refuse. At the bottom Lance stopped Sorry, and put an arm around Burt. Lance’s face was set masklike in its forced calm, but his voice was very tender, with the deep, vibrant note Mary Hope loved so ardently.
“Lean against me, old man, and rest a minute. It’s pretty tough going, but you’re game. You’re dead game. You’ll make it. Wait. I’ll stand on this rock––now lean hard, and rest. Ho, there’s no whisky––water will have to do you, now. I’ve a little in my canteen, and when you’ve rested––”
“I’m going,” said Burt, lurching against Lance’s steady strength. “You’re a white man. That Lorrigan dope––don’t forget what I told you––turn it in––”
Lance’s mouth twisted with sudden bitterness. “I won’t––forget,” he said. “I’ll turn it––in.”
“I’m––a goner. Just––stand and let me––lean––”