"They got down th' way we came up—Doc trailed th' Greaser an' got him at that water hole up north," Hopalong replied. "Don't know nothing about th' other feller. Reckon he got away, but one don't make much difference, anyhow. He'll never come back to this country."
"Say, how much longer will it take yore friends to do th' buryin' act?" asked Frisco, irritably. "I'm plumb tired of waiting—these wounds hurt like blazes, too."
"Reckon they're coming now," was the reply. "I hear—yes, here they are."
"I owe you ten dollars, Hall," Frisco remarked, trivial things now entering his mind. "Reckon you won't get it, neither."
"Oh, pay me in h—l!" Hall snapped.
"Yes," Buck was saying, "he shore was white. He knowed he was going an' he went like th' man he was—saving a friend. 'Tain't th' first time Frenchy McAllister's saved my life, neither."
Frisco glanced around and his face flashed with a look of recognition, but he held his tongue; not so with Curtis, who stared at him in surprise and stepped forward.
"Good G-d! It's Davis! What ever got you into this?"
"Easy money an' a gun fight," Davis, alias Frisco, replied.
"Tough luck, tough luck," Curtis muttered slowly.