“Not me!” declared Mrs. Porter. “If you’re goin’ huntin’ for a sheep-camp in the dark, I’m goin’ along.”
“I shall go too,” said Mary firmly.
“Whatcha goin’ to do?” grumbled Skeeter. “Two t’ one, and I’m loaded down. It ain’t reasonable—not any; but mebbe yo’re just as well off. It’s a —— of a trip, any old way yuh take it. C’m on. We’ve gotta get out of this cut before we can start across-country.”
It was at least two hundred yards to where the cut opened into more level country. Just before they reached the end of the cut a bulky object seemed to drag itself across the rails and halted in the center of the track.
The two women hung back, not realizing that it was a man; but Skeeter Bill plodded on with his burden until he reached the prone figure stretched between the rails.
“More danged cripples around here!” exclaimed Skeeter Bill, peering down at the man. “Who are you, pardner?”
“I’m Kales,” panted the man. “Nick Kales.”
Skeeter eased his burden to the ground. “Kales, eh? I ’member you, Kales. You said that the judge didn’t have any guts, ’cause he didn’t hang me.”
But Kales had collapsed again and did not answer.
“Must ’a’ been one of the gang who tried to hold up the train,” said Skeeter. “Got plugged for his trouble.”