And he stood staring blankly, with a touch or horror in his face.
“By God, Mat's plugged.”
“Mat Henshaw? Wha—?”
“Clean through the head.”
He lay in an oddly twisted heap, as though every bone in his body were broken, and when they drew him about they found the red mark in his forehead and even made out the dull surprise in his set face. There had been no pain in that death, the second for the sake of Grey Molly.
“The other two!” said the sheriff, more to himself than to Vic, who stood beside him.
“Easy, Pete,” he cautioned. “You got nothin' agin Haines and Daniels.”
The sheriff flashed at him that hungry, baffled glance.
“Maybe I can find something. You Gregg, keep your mouth shut and stand back. Halloo!”
He sent a long call quavering between the lonely mountains.