Still no one moved.
“I have a right to ask it shall be quick,” he repeated. “You were quick enough with him.” And Drylyn lifted his hand towards the messenger.
They followed his gesture, staring up at the wrong man, then down at the right one. The chatty neighbor shook his head. “Seems curious,” he said, slowly. “It ought to be done. But I couldn’t no more do it—gosh! how can a man fire his gun right after it’s been discharged?”
The heavy Drylyn looked at his comrades of the Gap. “You won’t?” he said.
“You better quit us,” suggested the neighbor. “Go somewheres else.”
Drylyn’s eyes ran painfully over ditch and diggings, the near cabins and the distant hills, then returned to the messenger. “Him and me,” he muttered. “It ain’t square. Him and me—” Suddenly he broke out, “I don’t choose him to think I was that kind of man!”
Before they could catch him he fell, and the wet knife slid from his fingers. “Sheriff,” he began, but his tone changed. “I’m overtakin’ him!” he said. “He’s going to know now. Lay me alongside—”
And so they did.