“No go, Billy; you’re done for.”
“Good God!” exclaimed the Judge, who had watched the Doctor with breathless interest; “ain’t ther’ no chance?”
“Nary,” replied the Doctor, decidedly.
“I’m a ruined man—I’m a used-up cuss,” said the Judge, with a look of bitter anguish. “I wish I’d gone under, too.”
“Easy, old hoss,” suggested one of the boys; “you didn’t do him, yer know.”
“That’s what’s the matter!” roared the Judge, savagely; “nobody’ll ever know which of us whipped.”
And the Judge sorrowfully took himself off, declining most resolutely to drink.
Many hearts were full of sympathy for the Judge; but the poor fellow on the bench seemed to need most just then. He had asked for some one who could write, and was dictating, in whispers, a letter to some person. Then he drank some brandy, and then some water; then he freely acquitted the Judge of having ever fought any way but fairly. But still his mind seemed burdened. Finally, in a very thin, weak voice, he stammered out:
“I don’t want—to make—to make it uncomfortable—for—for any of—you fellers, but—is ther’ a—a preacher in the camp?”
The boys looked at each other inquiringly; men from every calling used to go to the mines, and no one would have been surprised if a backsliding priest, or even bishop, had stepped to the front. But none appeared, and the wounded man, after looking despairingly from one to another, gave a smothered cry.