“I'm dyin', Bob. Give me the straight of it.”
“I can't. I don't know what you're driving at, Harley. It's a mistake—”
“Everything's a mistake—I'm a mistake” muttered the gambler. “Son, take me—to my—room—in the hotel. I'm a dog with a bad—name, but I—don't want to—die in—the street.”
Dan Pennycook, at his work among the strings of empty box-cars across the track, had heard the shooting; had seen the crowd leave the porch of the Silver Dollar saloon and surge out into the street. He came running now, and upon hearing the details of the duel he pressed through the circle of curious men who had gathered to see Harley P. Hennage die. He found Mr. Hennage seated in the sand with his head and shoulders supported by a stranger.
Mr. Hennage smiled his rare, trustful, childish smile as the yardmaster approached.
“Good old Dan!” he mumbled. “He can only—think of one—thing at a—time—like a horse—but—by God—he thinks—straight. Hello, Dan. I'm beefed. Help Bob—carry me in—Dan. I'm so—damned—heavy an' I don't want—any but real friends—to touch me—now.”
They picked him up and carried him into the hotel, up the narrow heat-warped stairs and down the corridor to his room. On the way down the corridor, Mr. Hennage sniffed curiously.
“They got—new mattin' in the rooms” he gasped. “Business—must be—lookin' up.”
The crowd followed into the room, and watched Bob McGraw and Dan Pennycook lay Mr. Hennage on his old bed. Dan Pennycook hurried for Doc Taylor, while Bob cleared the room of the curious and locked the door. Mr. Hennage beckoned him to his bedside.
“I ain't paid—for this bed yet” he said, “but there's money—in my pants pocket—an' you square up—for the damage—an' the annoyance—”