The men hurried to their tents to procure their firearms. From the window of the mess Stephen watched them, as one by one they returned and slipped into the darkened office. Then he stepped out on the porch, and seated himself beneath the full glare of the hanging electric light. Knowlton, with a dogged expression on his face, seated himself on the steps. Another man came and joined them. It was McKay.
“Let me stay here with you, Steve,” he said gruffly.
“Thank you!” replied Stephen. Then he relapsed into silence.
Sitting with his watch beside him on the arm of the chair, and smoking furiously, his eye traveled to Knowlton, and dwelt on the brown oiled butt of the latter’s “automatic,” an odd-shaped lump against the white of his shirt.
“That was the first time I ever killed a man by accident,” murmured Knowlton, half to himself. “The Doc said after supper that Rigas might possibly live another hour.”
“An hour, did you say?” asked Loring. Then again he sat in silence, staring intently at his watch.
“Quarter past eight. He has lived more than an hour since supper.”
From the valley, seven miles away, came softly the whistle of the evening train. The noise in camp was continually increasing in volume. Groups of miners went by the mess shouting, singing, and whooping derisively. Every now and then the babel of voices was punctuated by shots fired in rapid succession as some one emptied his gun in the air.
By the hospital a silent group was waiting, waiting for Rigas to die.