But there was no answer, and Breckenridge sat down by Grant’s side with a little groan, for his head swam once more and he felt a horrible coldness creeping over him. How long he sat there, while the smoke that rolled in from outside grew denser, he did not know; but by and by he was dimly conscious that the men were coming down the stairway. They clustered about him, and one of them, stooping over the injured homesteader, signed to his comrades.
“Put him into the wagon, and start off at once,” he said.
Three or four men came out from the rest, and when they shuffled away with their burden, the one who seemed to be leader pointed to Grant as he turned to Breckenridge.
“He would have it, and the thump on the head he got would have put an end to most men,” he said. “Still, I don’t figure you need worry about burying him just yet, and I want a straight answer. Are those dollars in the house?”
Breckenridge sat blinking at him a moment, and then very shakily dragged himself to his feet, and stood before the man, with one hand clenched. His face was white and drawn and there was a red smear on his forehead.
“If you would not believe the man who lies there, will you take my word?” he said unevenly. “He told you they were not.”
“I guess he spoke the truth,” said somebody. “Any way, we can’t find them. Well, what is to be done with him?”
Breckenridge, who was not quite himself, laughed bitterly. “Leave him where he is, and go away. You have done enough,” he said. “He gave you all he had—and I know, as no other man ever will, what it cost him—and this is how you have repaid him.”
Some of the men looked confused, and the leader made a deprecatory gesture. “Any way, we’ll give you a hand to put him where you want.”
Breckenridge waved him back fiercely. “I am alone; but none of you shall lay a hand on him while I can keep you off. If you have left any life in him, the touch of your fingers would hurt him more than anything.”