“I do, Bill, and appreciate it.”
The group about the motionless body fell away, and made room for the marshal, the last man to rise saying soberly:
“He's dead all right, Hickock. I guess he never knew what hit him. Good shootin', too, dark as it is here.”
“Had the range fixed, likely,” returned the marshal. “That's what makes it look like it was arranged for.”
He bent down, striving to distinguish the dead man's features turned up to the drizzle, but the night revealed the faintest outline.
“Anybody know him?” There was no response, only a shuffling of feet in the mud. “Here you man with the lantern, hold it over where I can see. There, that is better. Now, you fellows take a look, and see if some of you can't name the poor devil.”
They glanced down, one after the other, over Bill's shoulder, shading their eyes from the rain so as to see clearer. The light of the flickering lantern streamed full on the ghastly face, but each man shook his head, and passed on. Keith hung back, hoping some one would identify the body, and not make it necessary for him to take part in the grewsome task. It was not likely to be any one he knew, and besides, he felt the man had died in his stead, and he dreaded to look upon the stricken face. When the last of the group had drifted back out of the radius of light, Hickock looked up, and saw him.
“Here, Jack,” he said, gravely, “you better try—you might know him.”
Keith bent over, and looked down. As he did so his heart seemed to rise choking into his throat, and a blur obscured his sight. He swept a hand over his eyes and dropped on his knees into the mud beside the body, staring speechless into the white face, the sightless eyes. Hickock watching him closely, and gripped his arm.
“What is it? Do you know him?”