“Nothin’—but we’re aimin’ to keep yuh gents to show Spur afore we string yuh up—to sorta show Spur we——”
Caught by something in Boston Jack’s eyes, Allen hastily laid a hand on Slivers’ arm.
“Spur—he’s comin’? He sent yuh gents here?” Boston Jack asked.
“Sure did,” Allen replied easily.
Boston Jack was silent for a moment, then his lips opened and a string of curses poured forth.
“The dirty double crosser! He’d double cross his own mother! Damn him, tryin’ to hog it all! I’d cook his goose, only yuh’re his men an’——” He stopped suddenly.
“Naw, we ain’t his men. This here is Jack-twin Allen, the Wyoming sheriff,” Jim said, beckoning Jack forward.
Boston Jack stared with fevered eyes, then he nodded.
“Yeh, yuh sure is him. An’ I knows yuh ain’t working for no skunk like Spur. Come closer, an’ I’ll tell yuh somethin’ that will cut that double crosser’s horns,” Boston muttered.
Jack Allen knelt beside the dying outlaw, who whispered to him. His voice grew fainter and fainter, and Jack Allen stooped lower and lower, until his ear was close to the dying man’s lips. Then Boston sighed and straightened out. Jack Allen arose to his feet and looked down on the dead man.