“I’ll be——” Jim Nabours halted as something caught his eye. He stepped forward, drew back the face covering.
“Why, it’s Cal Dalhart!” said he. “He’s dead all right—but they done told me he was buried! McCoyne told me he seen it done hisself!”
The boy came and stared down in awe at the long and motionless figure, the white face.
“Him and Del, now——”
But Nabours took him by the arm. The two went down the stairs once more into the office room.
“Mister,” said Nabours to the gloomy occupant, handing over his key, “you’d better give me another room.”
“What’s the matter with the one you’ve got?” demanded the landlord of the Drovers’ Cottage.
“Somebody in it now,” replied Nabours, “and he’s dead. They told me that you-all got a couple of men to bury that man that got shot. Is that right? It was Mr. McCoyne told me that. Where is he?”
Sounds of voices came through the open door. A group of men were talking excitedly in the moonlight. The landlord summoned in one of these—McCoyne, ubiquitous and sleepless. To him Nabours repeated his query.
“Certainly, sir,” replied McCoyne. “I saw the two men carrying the coffin between them. I saw them bury him as plain as I ever saw anything in all my life! Of course, I wasn’t right out there with them. I been so busy——”