“Get some of these reformed sheepherders to help yuh rig up a litter of some kind. We’ve got to pack Eph King to the Arrow. And some of yuh fix up Larrimer, so he can ride a horse. Can’tcha move? My gosh, I don’t want to do everythin’.”
The crowd hastened to construct the litter. Allison had not moved, and now he turned to Hashknife, his face twitching nervously.
“Did he mean that I could go away—free, Hartley?”
“Are you here yet?” grinned Hashknife.
Allison took a deep breath and started toward the corral, but after a few strides he stopped and looked at Hashknife.
“Kinda queer, ain’t it?” he whispered foolishly. “I—I want to run, but I’m scared to do it.”
“You don’t have to run,” said Hashknife.
“I know it.” He smiled queerly. “I don’t have to—but I can’t hardly help myself.” He brushed the back of his hand across his cheek. ‘I want to say somethin’ to you—but I can’t, it seems like. I—you know, don’tcha, Hartley?”
“Yeah, I know, Allison.”
The freed rustler nodded, turned and walked slowly to the corral, as if trying desperately to hold himself in check. Hashknife smiled thoughtfully and looked at Molly and Jack. The girl’s eyes were filled with tears, but she was smiling at Hashknife, a smile that repaid him for everything he had done.