A hush spread across the field. It was like one of nature's invisible transitions. Along the edge of the woods the song of birds was stricken into silence. Ware, heavy-eyed Fentress, his lips twisted by a tortured smile, watched Mahaffy as he panted for breath, with his hand clenched against his chest. That dead oppressive silence lasted but a moment, from out of it came a cry that smote on the wounded man's ears and reached his consciousness.
“It's Price—” he gasped, his words bathed in blood, and he pitched forward on his face.
Ware and Fentress had heard the cry, too, and running to their horses threw themselves into the saddle and galloped off. The judge midway of the meadow roared out a furious protest but the mounted men turned into the highroad and vanished from sight, and the judge's shaking legs bore him swiftly in the direction of the gaunt figure on the ground.
Mahaffy struggled to rise, for he was hearing his friend's voice now, the voice of utter anguish, calling his name. At last painful effort brought him to his knees. He saw the judge, clothed principally in a gaily colored bed-quilt, hatless and shoeless, his face sodden and bleary from his night's debauch. Mahaffy stood erect and staggered toward him, his hand over his wound, his features drawn and livid, then with a cry he dropped at his friend's feet.
“Solomon! Solomon!” And the judge knelt beside him.
“It's all right, Price; I kept your appointment,” whispered Mahaffy; a bloody spume was gathering on his lips, and he stared up at his friend with glassy eyes.
In very shame the judge hid his face in his hands, while sobs shook him.
“Solomon—Solomon, why did you do this?” he cried miserably.
The harsh lines on the dying man's face erased themselves.
“You're the only friend I've known in twenty years of loneliness, Price. I've loved you like a brother,” he panted, with a pause between each word.