The body of Bilney he almost forgot for the moment, as he met the tearless, burning eyes of the girl, eery above the gag-bandage that covered her face. Trowbridge dropped to his knees beside the body of his friend. With a catlike leap, Spears hurdled the body and ripped at the girl’s bonds. Her large eyes gave him the creeps—they seemed like the only part of her alive.
“He’s still alive,” said Trowbridge, with ominous calmness, as he arose. “Judy girl, what happened?”
For a moment the girl neither moved nor spoke. Sleepy stood quietly beside her, his narrowed eyes watching the girl unwinkingly, as cold as the glint of sunlight on ice.
Then, in lifeless tones, the girl told the story while Trowbridge gently wiped her father’s wound with his bandana. As her story unfolded, her low-pitched voice grew louder. Suddenly the barriers of her artificial repression gave way. With a heart-rending cry, she threw herself on the body of her father. Her hands caressed his thin, blood-stained gray hair, and her lips were pressed to his withered cheek.
“I’m gittin’ some water,” said Trowbridge slowly, and disappeared.
Without speaking, Sleepy went into the store and caught up a blanket. He returned, and wrapped it round the girl in her torn nightgown. Then he put one arm under her and gently raised her to her feet as the Sheriff returned with a basin of water. Spears led the sobbing girl to a chair.
In silence broken only by the girl’s weeping, Trowbridge washed and bound the wound. Then he slowly got to his feet, his mahogany face a mask from which two thin slits flashed wrath that was terrible in its all-consuming force.
“I’d die happy the minute after I’d shot the skunk that did this,” he rasped, his face working suddenly.
“If you’ll shoot as you never shot before, maybe you can get him,” said Spears, the timbre of his voice subtly different. “Listen. This Buchanan would make for the border, wouldn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.”