"Hey, 'Red'——" Jim's voice dropped; his shaking hand pointed to an awkward mass half way down the incline.
They slid cautiously, clutching the rough crag edges beside the water.
Caught in one of the shelf-flaws of the rock, his miner's shirt coagulated with blackened blood, his stained overalls soggy with the water, lay a dead negro.
Hewin turned the body over; his fingers shrank and slipped at the moist unpleasantness.
They peered into the dead face of Ed Cole. A clinging mould of leaves half obscured the deputy's badge on his greasy lapel.
Jim's eyes expanded. "Cole, you know—he shot John Dawson."
They regarded the face for a few minutes.
"Got any terbaccer, Jim?"
"Red" lit up his pipe.
"Guess we'll tote 'im back—down that way, huh?"