“I wouldn't either—for the money,” said the Missourian. “Give me the pick.”
The two men attacked the bank with feverish energy and their task was soon finished; then the Missourian said:
“Now we'll just take one more look about among those cinders and then we'll get away from heah just as fast as the Lord will let us. I seen places I liked a heap better.”
But the search revealed nothing new.
“Who do you allow done it? Indians?” asked Jim, as they hurried away in the direction their mules had taken.
“Who else would it be?”
“No one else, judging from the way they'd been used. They—”
“Shut up!” cried the Missourian with sudden fierceness, “I ain't likely to forget how they was used! Good God! That's going to stick in my crop to the end of my days, I reckon—don't you rub it in!”
“Well, you done what was white!” said Jim, with unexpected and generous enthusiasm.
But for the rest of that day and far into the night, they could talk and think of nothing else than those dead men in the ditch.