Buck chafed impatiently before the chapel door leading to a small, well-kept graveyard, wondering what it was that kept quiet for so long a time his two most assertive men, when he had momentarily expected to hear more or less turmoil and confusion.
C-r-e-a-k! He glanced up, gun in hand and raised as the door swung slowly open. His hand dropped suddenly and he took a short step forward; six black-robed figures shouldering a long box stepped slowly past him, and his nostrils were assailed by the pungent odor of the incense. Behind them came his fighting punchers, humble, awed, reverent, their sombreros in their hands, and their heads bowed.
“What in blazes!” exclaimed Buck, wonder and surprise struggling for the mastery as the others cantered up.
“He's cashed,” Red replied, putting on his sombrero and nodding toward the procession.
Buck turned like a flash and spoke sharply: “Skinny! Lanky! Follow that glory-outfit, an' see what's in that box!”
Billy Williams grinned at Red. “Yo're shore pious, Red.”
“Shut up!” snapped Red, anger glinting in his eyes, and Billy subsided.
Lanky and Skinny soon returned from accompanying the procession.
“I had to look twice to be shore it was him. His face was plumb happy, like a baby. But he's gone, all right,” Lanky reported.
“Deader'n hell,” remarked Skinny, looking around curiously. “This here is some shack, ain't it?” he finished.