“Mahoney. But I got him! He’s over there!”
He rolled his eyes toward the dark corner of the Kazima, and with exclamations of surprise all of us, save George, hurried to the corner, struck matches, and looked. There lay Phil Mahoney, beyond all aid, dead. I threw my handkerchief over his face before we went back to George and Jim, on tiptoe, as if the sound of our footsteps on that beaten earth would ever matter to him. We gave Jim another draft of the brandy, and he feebly waved for silence.
“Let me talk,” he said. “Not much time left. Been going out all day. I’ve never been any good. Gambler’s habit of sleeping days, awake nights. Took walk yesterday morning. Wanted to get close to birds and hear ’em sing. Mile above camp. Saw Phil Mahoney toting something toward boat. Acted queer. Didn’t see me. Got in boat and shoved off. Skirted opposite shore as if afraid being seen. ‘Funny,’ says I. ‘Wonder what that big, ugly devil’s up to?’ Forgot all about it and went back to my cabin, to clean up. Couldn’t find best shoes. Cussed some, and wondered what Siwash could have swiped them. Then, all of sudden, remembered Mahoney walked queer. So I⸺”
He stopped and his lithe, wounded body was twisted with a harsh cough that threatened to undo him, and again we gave him brandy. After a time, but in a weaker and more broken voice, he went on: “So I went back. Never trusted him, anyhow. Sure enough there were tracks in the mud. He had ’em on. I back-tracked him. Found thicket of pussy willows, and inside of it empty gold sacks. Special buck. You fellows’ names on ’em in indelible pencil. Got wild! Ran back farther along tracks and saw he must have come from gulch trail—your direction. Saw it all in a minute. Saw you fellows wouldn’t believe me, because you know I’ve been a bad one—sometimes—not always. Maybe not so bad as some. Only thing I could do to show you I wasn’t a dog, and appreciated what you all had done for me, was to catch thief. Grabbed canoe and chased him. Caught him here, where he’d stopped to make tea, above village. Saw smoke. Found boat—nothing in it. Crept up on him. He had gold dust with him. Tried to get drop on him, but he was too quick. Whirled and shot.”
He rested silently for a moment as if to gather strength, and there was a little, exultant gleam in his eyes as he continued:
“I was down. Played fox. ‘That’s all right!’ says he, as he came up and stood over me, ‘but I’d rather you’d been hanged by them Competents.’ Then he laughed and turned back. I got to my elbow and shot. He went down. Then we shot from the ground, and luck was against me. Could feel every one of his hit. Didn’t know any more till Indians came running and picked me up. Phil was dead. Made natives bring me here with your dust. Told ’em better bring Phil, too, so if I went out, and you came, you’d understand.”
He coughed again, more violently, and the brandy seemed to have lost its effect. He motioned with his dying fingers toward his side, and we had to bend over to catch his whispered words:
“It’s there—by me—all of it—and—and—George, you’re white and—I’m not so bad—after all—am I? Wanted you boys to know that⸺”
As if the severing of soul and body had given him an instant’s strength, he half stiffened, struggled, and then tried to laugh, a ghastly semblance of that reckless, full-throated laugh that had given him his sobriquet, twitched, gasped, seemed to abruptly relax, and rested very still.
“Right? You’re right as rain! You are! God knows you are!”