"Calamity—pal," he said, "how'd you let a tenderfoot, a damned tenderfoot, do this?"
The other sighed: "I dunno. I had him covered. I should have sent him to hell. But sure shootin' is better'n fast shootin'. He nailed me fair and square while I was blockin' him at the door."
"How d'you feel?"
"Done for, Shorty, but damned glad that——-"
His voice died away in a horrible whisper and bubbles of red foam rose to his lips.
"God!" groaned Shorty, and then called loudly, as if the strength of his voice might recall the other, "Calamity!"
The eyes of Calamity rolled up; the wide lips twisted over formless words; there was no sound from his mouth. Someone was holding a lantern whose light fell full on the silent struggle. It was Nash, his habitual sneer grown more malevolent than ever.
"What of the feller that done it, Shorty?" he suggested.
"So help me God," said the cattleman, with surprising softness, "the range ain't big enough to keep him away from me."
Drew, completing his bandage, said, "That's enough of such talk, Nash. Let it drop there. Here, Kilrain, take his feet. Help me into the house with him."