“Ed—shot—me.”
It was a very faint whisper, in which he added—“He—took—the—woman.”
For a moment he tried to say more, but the words would not come. Then he seemed to relax instantly and his eyes closed. Hashknife got slowly to his feet and looked around.
“So Ed got the woman, eh?” he muttered. “Now, who in —— is Ed?”
“I wish we had some whisky,” mourned Sleepy.
“What for?”
“To give him a shot. Strong liquor—”
“Wouldn’t do him any good, Sleepy; he’s dead.”
“Well,” said Sleepy vacantly, “I—the poor son-of-a-gun. What’ll we do with him?”
“Nothin’, Sleepy. We can’t keep on carryin’ dead men to town. I’m tired of bein’ a travelin’ morgue, so I reckon we’ll shut the door and leave him here for a while. It kinda looks like somebody by the name of Ed came along and took Hartwell’s wife.”