"Careful, careful, young man; none o' your lip!" said the leader, half admiringly.
"Give 'em the lot!" It was the first time Westerfelt had spoken.
Washburn made no reply, but went slowly back into the stable.
Westerfelt's dying horse raised his head and groaned. A man near the animal dismounted and drew his revolver.
"What d' you say?" said he to Westerfelt. "Hadn't I better put 'im out o' his misery?"
"I'd be much obliged if you would." Westerfelt turned his face away. There was a moment's pause. The man waited for the horse's head to become still. Then he fired.
"Thanks," said Westerfelt. He looked round at the crowd, wondering which of the men could be Toot Wambush. He had an idea that he had not yet spoken, and was not among those nearest to him. Through the open door he could see Washburn's lantern moving about in the stable.
"Hurry up in thar," cried a tall figure. "Do you think we're gwine to—" He began to cough.
"How do you like to chaw cotton, Number Six?" a man near him asked.
"The blamed lint gits down my throat," was the reply. "I'd ruther be knowed by my voice'n to choke to death on sech truck."