He imagined that a posse was already on his trail, and once he saw Geronimo far back in the road, just topping a rise, and his imagination conjured up a dozen armed men, hot on his trail. The shooting had made him cold sober, but the taste of liquor was still on his palate.
His future was indefinite, because his thoughts ran in circles. He could see the big deputy, lying flat in the street, his knees jerking. Everything else was blotted out by that picture. He tried to remember just why he had fired the shot, but it was like a half-forgotten dream—something that had happened long ago.
His horse was plastered with lather, when he rode in at the patio gate and dismounted near the well. Hashknife and Sleepy were just coming from the ranch-house door, realizing from the condition of the horse that something was wrong.
“What’s wrong, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.
Jimmy flapped his arms weakly, and there was a decided catch in his throat.
“I just killed the deputy sheriff,” he said.
Hashknife stepped closer and grasped Jimmy by a shoulder.
“You done what?”
Jimmy gulped and nodded.
“Ye-yes, I did. I—I—”