The sound of the shot brought up all the boys from below.
“They’ve fit!” gasped the doubter, catching his breath as he ran, “an’ the boy—boy’s hed to—lay him out.
It seemed as if the doubter might be right, for the boys found Grump lying on the ground bleeding badly, and the Pet on his hands and knees.
“How did it come ’bout?” asked the colonel of Pet.
“Broady done it,” replied Grump, in a hoarse whisper; “he pounded the boy, and I tackled him—then he fired.”
The doubter went around and raised the dying man’s head. Pet seemed collecting all his energies for some great effort; finally he asked:
“What made you pour your dust into my pouch?”
“‘Cause,” whispered the dying man, putting one arm about Pet’s neck, and drawing him closer, “‘cause I’m yer dad; give this to yer mar,” and on Pet’s homely face the ugliest man at Painter Bar put the first token of human affection ever displayed in that neighborhood.
The arm relaxed its grasp and fell loosely, and the red eyes closed. The experienced colonel gazed into the upturned face, and gently said:
“Pet, yer an orphan.”