“Le Diable à Cheval.” The man’s voice was nothing but a faint whisper. He sighed and closed his eyes.
“Dable Chaval—huh, that’s a hell of a name,” Toothpick grumbled. “Reckon we’ll have to wait until he comes to again. Will he live?”
“Certain—then he’ll talk.” Dutchy was positive.
“When he does I’m aimin’ to start gunnin’ for the gent what murdered that woman,” Toothpick cried savagely.
“Me, too,” Dutchy said quietly.
They covered the wounded man with a blanket and once more continued their search of the surrounding bushes. Fifteen minutes later, just as they had decided there was nothing more to be found, a voice hailed them from the darkness.
“Hey, Dutchy, what’s goin’ on here?” the voice asked.
At the sound of the summons, both Toothpick and Dutchy instinctively leaped for cover. Recognition of the voice brought them to an abrupt halt.
“Huh, it’s the sheriff,” Toothpick said with a shamefaced grin.
Dutchy nodded and lowered the hammer of his rifle.