Elam stammered and coughed, and looked all around for help. Finally he glanced appealingly at me, but what could I say?
“He was brung in about half an hour ago,” said Mr. Chisholm, drawing his hand hastily across his face. “And although we have had two doctors at him, whom we found among the Rangers, they say it is too late to do anything. They say it is something like heart disease.”
“Was no one near him when he was taken?” I asked, feeling that I must say something.
“There were a dozen men near him,” was the answer. “They got to him as quickly as they could, but couldn’t be of any use. And I’ll tell you that he had his left hand tightly clasped on his pocket-book,” said Mr. Chisholm, riding up closer to me and speaking in a whisper. “So that is safe.”
I breathed easier after that, and fell in beside Mr. Chisholm, who led the way slowly toward the wagon. We found it completely surrounded by men—Rangers, farmers, and cowboys—who had come in to see about it; for it was seldom that a loss like this happened during a drive. But they paid no attention to us. Their gaze was fixed upon a man who had attempted to go into the wagon, but the guard had stopped him. We worked our way gradually through the crowd, and Bob, who gave little heed to what was going on around him, threw himself from his horse, and made his way into the wagon.
“Elam,” said he, “you must go with me. I feel safer when you are around.”
The guard, prompted by a sign from Mr. Chisholm, allowed him to pass, and nobody made any effort to stop him, but the man who was talking with the guard was well-nigh furious.
“Who’s that who allows a stranger to go in to my brother?” said he, turning fiercely upon Mr. Chisholm. “I guess I have got more right in there than he has.”
“Who be you?” asked Mr. Chisholm.
“I am Clifford Henderson, if it will do you any good to know it,” answered the man. “I haven’t seen my brother for eight years, and I claim the right to go in to him.”