Bill turned Freel over on his back and felt of his heart. It was still beating, but jerky.
“Pardner, I betcha yo’re water-logged quite a lot,” gurgled Skeeter. “I know —— well that I am. But you’ve likely got enough holes in yore carcass to drain yuh pretty quick.”
Carefully he searched the sheriff’s pockets until he found the key to the handcuffs. His wrist was cut and torn, but he chuckled with joy as the cuff opened easily and he was free once more.
“Now let ’em take me,” he grunted wearily as he searched the sheriff for a gun; but there was none.
He had lost the gun in the car.
Skeeter got to his feet and tried to figure out which way to go. He was going back to see Kirk and get a gun. That was the least Kirk could do for him. He was going to win free; going to get a horse and a gun and the valley of Moon River would see him no more.
He moved slowly away into the brush, feeling his way carefully. Suddenly he stopped. The idea had just struck him that he might make folks think he was dead.
If he removed the handcuff from Freel and threw him in the river, who would know that they had ever been linked together? Mary Leeds and Mrs. Porter would in all probability never be questioned. And if they did, they would, or possibly might, tell a white lie to help him out. It was worth chancing.
He felt his way back to Freel and started to lift him up. It would be a simple matter to drop him over the bank. Freel would never suffer—never realize, because he was already unconscious, perhaps dying.
But suddenly the words of old Judge Tareyton came back to him: