“Yes, I did start down all right. But I met up with a lad down here a stretch and give him my papers and shackled on back. Damn your saddle thieves, anyway—I sure wanted to go back and paw round that claim of mine. My pack horse is back there hobbled, too.”
“Aw, nemmine your pack horse. He’ll make out till mornin’.”
Ahead of them the wagon road was gouged into the side of an overhang of promontory, under a saddleback pass to northward. A dim trail curved away toward the pass. Adam’s eye followed the trail. Caney’s horse fell back a step.
“There’s where I found my mail carrier,” said Adam; “up on top of that little thumb. A Bar Cross waddy, he was—brandin’ a calf.”
Caney fired three times. The muzzle of his forty-five was almost between Adam’s shoulders. Adam fell sidewise to the left, he clutched at his rifle, he pulled it with him as he fell. His foot hung in the stirrup, his horse dragged him for a few feet. Then his foot came free. He rolled over once, and tried to pull his rifle up. Then he lay still with his face in the dust.
VIII
“Look on my face. My name is Might-Have-Been—
I am also called No-More, Too-Late, Farewell.”
—Credit Lost.