“Where did Roper Bates come in on this?” demanded a bearded cow-man.
Roper Bates was trying to sit up, and one of the crowd assisted him while another gave him a drink of liquor.
More men were coming into the door, clumping heavily in their wet boots. They shoved to the front—the Tin Cup outfit, with Monk Clark at their head. He looked at Skeeter Bill and blinked his eyes rapidly. It was like looking at a ghost. His eyes switched to the three men on the floor, and Roper Bates was looking up at him.
Clark’s men had halted behind him. One of them pointed at Skeeter and said:
“There’s the —— murderin’ sheeperder, Monk! He didn’t drown.”
Mary Leeds moved in closer to Skeeter, and he put an arm around her.
“Murderin’ ——!” gasped Roper Bates. “He only killed a man, Monk. You and your gang tried to kill a woman. If I hadn’t been there you’d ’a’ done it, too.”
The man who had given Roper Bates the drink was forcing a drink between Freel’s lips, and Freel choked over the fiery liquor. The man lifted Freel’s head a little higher, and Freel’s eyes slowly opened.
For a full minute he studied the crowd, and his eyes shifted to Skeeter Bill.
“What—happened?” he muttered. “They—shot——”