Dave started toward his bedroom for the rifle hanging on the wall, reconsidered and looked at the huddled heap on the floor. "We'll take care of th' best man first," he said, picking up the limp figure and carrying it to the base of the front wall. Getting a blanket, he went back again, and as he stood up he drew a deep breath and faced his companions, a look almost reverent coming to his face and softening the malignancy of its expression.
"He died like a man—I hope I do as good. Let's liquor."
The afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen when the low voices in the saloon ceased to allow the speakers to catch the sounds of a horse coming up the trail. Dave, moving with surprising celerity for one of his build and habits, grabbed a rifle and hastened to the front window, where he peered out cautiously, and then, walking to the bar, he reached over it, stood the weapon behind it, and replied to the unspoken inquiries of his companions.
"It's Nelson," he said, quietly.
The hoofbeats ceased abruptly and Johnny's voice was heard promising the horse some sugar. He entered and strode straight for the bar, nodding cheerily at the three, and then smiled quizzically.
"You shore look glum," he remarked, "glum as a funeral. Come up an' take somethin' for it. Well, th' SV is bein' cleaned neat an' proper. Cimarron knows his business, an' that crew of his is goin' at full speed. I come in to get Two-Spot. They're needin' a tally man, an' he ought to go through with it. Seen him around, or is he hidin' out, layin' low?"
"He's layin' low," replied Dave.
Johnny looked at him curiously, puzzled by the proprietor's manner. "Meanin'?"
"He's dead," said Dailey, bluntly, staring fixedly at the front wall.