Robin crossed the street, walked in through the open door of Monty’s Place, alert, nerves tense, looking first of all for sight of a lean, dark face with gray eyes that held malice whenever they rested on him.
And Shining Mark was almost the first man he saw. But there was no malice in his eyes now. He was stretched full-length on the floor, a white-handled Colt three feet from his outspread fingers. A shaft from the sinking sun played on his face through a window and a fly buzzed over him in the yellow beam.
Adam Sutherland sat in a chair. Men stood about him in a circle. A professional looking person in a white shirt, with his sleeves rolled up, was swathing a bandage about Sutherland’s naked middle. The old man looked up at Robin and smiled.
“I beat you to him,” he said a little hoarsely. “He was on the warpath an’ I settled his hash.”
Robin said nothing. There was nothing to say. Death is sobering. No one talked much. When a man did speak he lowered his voice. Some one appeared with a canvas and spread it over Shining Mark. Even old Mayne, bearing all the marks of drunkenness which made his tongue wag always beyond all restraint, looked silently at Sutherland and kept still. The man who owned the saloon said to Robin:
“Lucky Doc happened to be here. Came up from Havre to look after a sick woman. So we got him right off.”
“There you are, Mr. Sutherland,” the doctor stood back and surveyed his handiwork. “Rest easy for a few days and you’ll be as good as ever. I’ll look in in the morning and dress that again. Better get a rig to take you over to your house.”
“Shucks.” Sutherland stood up and tucked in his shirt, waving off the men who would have supported him. “I don’t need nobody but Tyler to help me home. A scratch like that. Shucks!”
Robin lent him his arm. They passed out the door, crossed the dusty street, Sutherland leaning on Robin, walking slowly. As they cleared the hotel, May watching from the porch saw them and came on flying feet.
“Oh,” she cried, and again, “Oh, dad, dad!”