“I’m marshal now,” he replied. “The police force has been done away with by the mayor and council.”
“Well then, I still have doubt about the safety of Comanche,” she observed, turning from him.
Governor Boyle approached Ten-Gallon and pointed to Hun Shanklin’s body.
“You must do something to get that carcass out of camp right away,” he said. “Isn’t there a deputy coroner at Comanche?”
“The undertaker is,” said Ten-Gallon, drawing back at the prospect of having to lay hands on the body of the man whom he feared in death as he had feared him in life.
“Send him over here,” Governor Boyle directed.
Ten-Gallon departed on his mission, and the Governor took one of the trodden blankets from in front of the tent and spread it over Shanklin’s body, shrouding it completely. Dr. Slavens had lowered the flap of the 323 tent to keep the sun from the wounded man’s face. When he came out, Agnes met him with an inquiring look.
“He’s conscious,” said the doctor. “The blow of that heavy bullet knocked the wind out of him for a while.”
“Will he–lapse again?” asked the Governor, balancing between hope and fear.
“It isn’t likely. You may go in and speak to him now if you want to. But he must keep still. A little exertion might start a hemorrhage.”