“Yeah—move your feet for’ard and back and carry yore body along at the same time. I betcha he can,” continued Skeeter; and then to Mrs. Porter: “Can yuh kindly help hang on to him? I reckon we’ll add him to our collection.”
“He came here to lynch you.”
Mrs. Porter was a trifle indignant at the idea of taking Kales along.
“Yeah, tha’s a fact,” admitted Skeeter Bill; “but he fell down on the job. Let’s go.”
He swung the inert Freel back across his shoulder and started off down the track, with the stumbling Kales hanging to the sleeve of his coat and being assisted to some extent by Mrs. Porter. Bringing up the rear came Mary Leeds, wanting to be of help to some one, but unable to decide just where to begin.
Roper Bates had consumed considerable whisky that day, but had not succeeded in getting so drunk that he forgot his plans. It was after dark when he rode away from Crescent City, heading toward Kirk’s sheep-camp.
The fact that a big storm was coming did not bother Roper Bates. His mind still carried a picture of the pretty woman at the sheep-camp, and he was sufficiently filled with liquor actually to believe that he was going to do her a real favor by taking her away from her plebeian husband.
The last quarter of a mile he rode in a whirl of dust while the thunder jarred the world about him; but he was storm-proof. He dismounted near the door, and his horse immediately moved into the shelter of the cabin wall.
The door was not barred; so Roper Bates surged inside and shut the door behind him. The cabin was lighted with a single lantern, which swayed from a rafter, and it took him several moments to get his dust-filled eyes accustomed to the dim light.