“I’m suffering very much. Get a doctor—”
“Where’s the money?” several men asked in a chorus.
“That’s for you to find out,” the Skull answered, with a momentary flash of his old lawless spirit. Then weakly: “Get a doctor!”
“Where’s the money?” Colonel Gaitskill asked, bending over Slatey.
“Where’s the sawbones, Santa Claus?” Slatey mocked, coughing little flecks of blood off his lips.
“Get a doctor!” Gaitskill commanded sharply, glaring at the crowd.
Dr. Shuttle stepped forth, producing, with an important air, a pocket medical case containing a hypodermic needle and several vials of medicine.
Dr. Shuttle was young and very ambitious. He quickly made a hypodermic injection into the Skull’s side. It eased the criminal’s pain. In fact he has never suffered since. In short, he died.
“Where’s the money?” the sheriff demanded again, shaking the lifeless form.
The Skull’s mouth drooped open in a grotesque imitation of a laugh. Slatey had nothing more to say.