"That's Gregory!" whispered Anderson, as they neared the suffering group. He pointed to the most distant cot. "That's jest the way he swore last night. He must 'a' shaved in the automobile last night," though Gregory had merely discarded the false whiskers he had worn for days.
"Wait!" exclaimed Bonner, stopping short beside the first cot. He stooped and peered intently into the face of the wounded bandit. "By George!"
"What's up?"
"As I live, Mr. Crow, this fellow was one of the gang that abducted Rosalie Gray last winter. I can swear to it. Don't you remember the one she tried to intercede for? Briggs! That's it! Briggs!"
The injured man slowly opened his eyes as the name was half shouted. A sickly grin spread slowly over his pain-racked face.
"She tried to intercede fer me, did she?" he murmured weakly. "She said she would. She was square."
"You were half decent to her," said Bonner. "How do you happen to be with this gang? Another kidnaping scheme afloat?"
"No—not that I know of. Ain't you the guy that fixed us? Say, on the dead, I was goin' to do the right thing by her that night. I was duckin' the gang when you slugged me. Honest, mister, I was goin' to put her friends next. Say, I don't know how bad I'm hurt, but if I ever git to trial, do what you can fer me, boss. On the dead, I was her friend."
Bonner saw pity in Anderson's face and rudely dragged him away, although Bill's plea was not addressed to the old marshal.
"Wait for me out here, Mr. Crow," said he when they reached the office. "You are overcome. I'll talk to him." He returned at once to the injured man's cot.