“Yeah, about a week ago, Len. Horse dragged him to death. They buried him in the old cemetery. I thought you’d heard.”
Len shut his eyes tightly, his lips quivering slightly. For possibly a minute neither of them spoke. Then—
“He was my friend,” said Len.
“I know it, Len. Old Whisperin’ and Sailor are still out there at the ranch. It was a shock to them. They’re gettin’ old, don’tcha know it?”
“Yeah, that’s right. But old Harmony. You say a horse dragged him to death, Johnny?”
“Uh-huh. Harmony was in town here and he had a lotta drinks. You know how he could drink, Len. Well, he wasn’t ridin’ a particularly bad bronc, but I s’pose he—well, anyway, the horse drug him home. He was shore in a awful shape. Whisperin’ Taylor found him. Queer old coot, Whisperin’ is. It hurt him a lot—him and Sailor Jones.”
“It hurts me too,” said Len softly. “I liked Harmony.”
“He was a square shooter, Len.”
“My best friend. Nothin’ could make him believe the things they said about me.”
“I know it.”