Molly looked away. Her agony of mind was terrible. The sight nearly broke her heart. She gazed up at Jim in helpless appeal, and the man dropped on his knees beside her.
“Isn’t ther’ a thing we can do?” she cried. “Oh, Jim, tell me. Can’t——”
“Cut it—out, Molly, gal,” Lightning mumbled, as his body rocked. “Ther’ ain’t goin’—to be—no bleatin’.”
His choking attacked him again. It was ghastly. Then came the blood ooze afresh, and the poor old creature gasped out his words through it. His eyes were on Jim. And their eagerness suggested that anxiety was pressing.
“You’re—clear—of—him,” he spluttered. “I shot him cold at the fork—o’ the Calford trail. I gave him a chanct—that was no—darn chanct. We stood up at fifty—wi’ two shots each. He dropped—cold. I come along up—to—to tote Molly, gal, home. Guess—I won’t make it, though. This darn cough——”
Again Lightning choked. And it was moments before he recovered sufficiently to go on. When he did, however, his hands had parted from about his knees. He would have fallen heavily back against the stone but for Molly’s support.
His eyes were half closed now, but they still gazed urgently up at the white-haired man.
“Say,” he cried, with a spasm of dying energy, “it’s up to—you.” He gasped. Now, curiously, his cough made no return. “You’ll fix—her right? Guess I’m—failin’ through. She ain’t got no one but me. An’ I guess—I’m—done. You will? You’re clear o’ that skunk. So’s she. You’ll——”
Jim nodded. In that moment of the old man’s agony he was glad enough to help him. But he knew that, even at the moment of death, the old creature was contriving another service.
“Lightning, old feller,” he said earnestly, “you don’t need to worry a thing for Molly, gal. I’m crazy to marry her, if she’ll have me. And I’ll make good for her, too, same as you’d have me do. Don’t go, old feller,” he said, thrusting his arm about the dying man for added support. “Just ask her yourself. Then you’ll know.”