"He exchanged a bearskin," replied Brace, "with a single hole right over the heart. He's a dead shot, I tell you."
"D——n his shooting," said Dunn. "I'm not thinking of that. How long ago did he bring in that bearskin?"
"About two weeks, I reckon. Why?"
"Nothing! Look yer, Brace, you mean well—thar's my hand. I'll go down with you there, but not as the sheriff. I'm going there as Jim Dunn, and you can come along as a white man, to see things fixed on the square. Come!"
Brace hesitated. "You'll think better of my plan before you get there; but I've said I'd stand by you, and I will Come, then. There's no time to lose."
They passed out into the darkness together.
"What are you waiting for?" said Dunn impatiently, as Brace, who was supporting him by the arm, suddenly halted at the corner of the house.
"Some one was listening—did you not see him? Was it the old man?" asked Brace hurriedly.
"Blast the old man! It was only one of them Mexican packers chock-full of whiskey, and trying to hold up the house. What are you thinking of? We shall be late."
In spite of his weakness, the wounded man hurriedly urged Brace forward, until they reached the latter's lodgings. To his surprise, the horse and buggy were already before the door.