He did not move, and Van, mechanically igniting the candle's wick, while he eyed the man before him, beheld dry blood, and some that was fresh, on the haggard face, on the tattered clothing, and even on one loose hand.
"Barger!" he said. "What in thunder, man——"
The outlaw rallied his failing strength and raised himself up on one hand. He could barely speak, but his lips attempted a smile.
"I thought I heard you—call fer the joker," he said, "and so—I come."
Van was up. He saw that the man had been literally shot to pieces. One of his arms was broken. A portion of his scalp was gone. He was pierced in the body and leg. He had met the posse, fought his fight, escaped with wounds that must have stopped any animal on earth, and then had dragged himself to Van, to repay his final debt.
"I haven't called—I haven't called for anything," said Van. "You're wounded, man, you're——"
Barger rose up weakly to his knees.
"Need the money, don't you—now?" he interrupted. "You can—use the reward, I guess."
"Good God, I don't want that kind of money!" Van exclaimed. "Who got you, Matt—who got you?"
"Sheriff," said the convict dispassionately. "Good man, Christler—and a pretty good shot—but I got away with his lead."