A few moments later a short, stocky man leapt out of the darkness and halted before him. As the Padre recognized him his finger left the trigger of his gun.
“For Gawd’s sake don’t shoot, Padre!”
It was Curly Saunders’ voice, and the other laid his gun aside.
“What’s amiss?” demanded the Padre, noting the man’s painful gasping for breath.
For a moment Curly hesitated. Then, finally, between heavy breaths he answered the challenge.
“I got mad with the Kid—Soapy,” he said. “Guess I shot him up. He ain’t dead an’ ain’t goin’ to die, but Beasley, curse him, set ’em on to lynch me. They’re all mad drunk—guess I was, too, ’fore I started to run—an’ they come hot foot after me. I jest got legs of ’em an’ come along here. It’s—it’s a mighty long ways.”
The Padre listened without moving a muscle—the story so perfectly fitted in with his thoughts.
“The Kid isn’t dead? He isn’t going to die?” His voice had neither condemnation nor sympathy in it.
“No. It’s jest a flesh wound on the outside of his thigh.”