A group was gathered about the body in the rain, a single lantern glimmering. Two or three men had started down the passageway, and Keith met them, revolvers drawn and suspicious.
“Who are you?” snapped one sharply. “Were you doing all that shooting yonder?”
Keith recognized the voice, thankful that he did so.
“I fired at the fellow, but he got away onto the prairie. I reckon you couldn't have done any better, Bill.”
“Jack Keith!” and Hickock's voice had a new tone, his hand dropping on the other's shoulder. “Never was gladder to meet a fellow in my life. Boys, this is an old deputy of mine down in Dodge. When he gives up chasin' a murderer there isn't much use our tryin'. Let's go back, and find out how bad the fellow is hurt. While we're feelin' our way, Jack, you might tell us what you know about this affair.”
“It was just the flash of a gun, and the man dropped,” Keith explained, briefly. “I was ten or a dozen feet behind, and the fellow fired from under the wagon there. He must have been laying for some one—I reckon, maybe, it was me.”
“You? Then it's likely you have some notion who he was?”
“Well, if I have, Bill,” and Keith's lips were set tight, “I'm not liable to tell you. If it's the lad I think likely, I'll attend to the case myself. You understand—this is my personal affair.”
Hickock nodded, his hand again pressing the other's shoulder
“Sure, Jack, if you feel that way. There's enough in Sheridan to keep a marshal reasonably busy, without dippin' into private matters. I rather reckon you can take care of yourself, but if you need me, old boy I'm always right here on the job. You know that.”