But Boston, it seems, could hear Carlota sobbin’ and cryin’ and prayin’. And it got in to his collar. So darned if he didn’t run right ’round to that winda and smash it in!
Pedro shot at him, missed; shot again, still yellin’ bloody murder.
Boston wasn’t doin’ no yellin’. He was actin’ like a blamed jack-in-the-box. Stand up, fire through the winda, duck–stand up, duck––
He got it. Stayed up a second too long oncet–then tumbled back’ards, kinda half runnin’ as he goes down, and laid quiet.
Pedro didn’t lean out t’ finish him; didn’t even take a shot at us as we pulled up byside him and got off.
But the gal was callin’ to us. I picked up Boston’s gun and looked in.
Pedro was on the dirt floor, holdin’ his right hand with his left. (No more shovelin’ fer him.)
Wal, we opened the door, led Carlota’s hoss out, set the little gal loose, and lifted her down.
At first, she didn’t say nothin’–just looked to where Boston was. Then she found her feet and went towards him, totterin’ unsteady.
“Querido!” she calls; “querido!”