“Molly!” he cried.
Lightning made a tremendous effort. By sheer will-power he lifted himself and made his dying body obey him. He sat up. He drew up his knees and clasped his lean hands about. Only a moment before they had lain limp and inert upon his stone bed. But the cost was great. Greater than he knew. He paid for it in a terrible fit of that hideous, soundless cough.
Jim Pryse was standing over him. His pitying gaze was for that grievous, unkempt figure. He saw the blood-stains on the shirt, and on the stone on which Lightning had been lying. He beheld the ooze dying the corners of his hard old mouth. And he knew. There could be no mistaking the sign. Death was very near. The man’s superb courage alone supported him and carried him through the fierce effort he was making.
Molly was kneeling on the stone beside him. Already one of her arms was flung about the lean shoulders of the dying man. She, too, understood. And her action was less a support than a caress.
In that supreme moment Lightning looked to need no support. He squatted on his old haunches in a fashion so familiar. His lower jaw was no longer sagging. His head was erect, and a queer sort of smile looked back into the girl’s passionately troubled eyes. It was the moment of his life.
“I was comin’ right—along—up,” he gasped. Then a queer look replaced his smile. “You hadn’t need to—butt in—Molly, gal. I ain’t needin’—no sort o’ help,” he complained.
Molly looked into the dying eyes; she saw the blood ooze at his mouth, the poor, sunken cheeks so ghastly. She wanted to cry out. She was swept to her soul by passionate pity.
“But you’re hit, Lightning,” she cried. “You’re wounded. Oh, God? You’re wounded to—death.”
A flash of storm lit the old man’s eyes.
“Ther’—ain’t—no—feller,” he gasped, “wi’ the guts to shoot up ‘Two-gun’ Rogers. You’re—wrong, Molly, gal. I ain’t—shot up. He couldn’t—shoot up a—buck louse. I left him feed for the coyotes. I ain’t—shot—up,” he cried obstinately. “Jest grazed. That’s all. It’s this—darn cough.”