"You said there would be no killing," he gasped, passing his hand wearily across his forehead as if to wipe out the memory of the crime.
"Well, what did the old fool pull his gun for?" grumbled McKee petulantly, as if Terrill was the aggressor in the encounter.
Bud threw himself wearily on the ground.
"I'd give the rest of my life to undo to-day's work," he groaned, speaking more to himself than to his companion.
McKee heard him. His anger began to arise. If Bud weakened detection was certain. Flight back to Texas must be started without delay. If he could strengthen the will of the boy either by promise of reward or fear of punishment, the chances of detection would lessen as the days passed.
"And that would be about twenty-four hours if you don't keep quiet. Why didn't he put up his hands when I hollered? He starts to wrastle and pull gun, and I had to nail him." McKee shuddered spite of his bravado.
Pulling himself together with an apparent effort, he continued: "We'll hold the money for a spell—not spend a cent of it till this thing blows over—they'll never get us. Here, we'll divide it."
"Keep it all. I never want to touch a penny of it," said Bud earnestly, moving along the ground to place a greater distance between him and the murderer.
"Thanks. But you don't git out of your part of the hold-up that easy. Take your share, or I'll blow it into you," said McKee, pulling his revolver.
Bud, with an effort, arose and walked over to Buck. With clenched fists, in agonized tones, he cried: "Shoot, if you want to. I wish I'd never seen you—you dragged me into this—you made me your accomplice in a murder."