"Someone from your outfit," shouted Sash, "has been out in one of our herds and shot a half dozen yearlings and two three-year-old steers. Aren't you satisfied with veal? Say, old man, who did this mean trick?"
The acts of a coward are preceded by a queer train of thought, the kingpin of which is fear. Preston knew his disreputable work of butchering among the herd of cattle had been discovered. He knew that Sash, a Texan, was a man of action, and that Sash was fortified with the right on his side, and if justice were meted out it would be some kind of punishment. The revolver in his holster was close to his hand and fear—cowardly fear—overpowered his weak mind.
Martin had no time to reply, and the first indication that the coward was to act upon the impulse that would move him was the cry from a bullwhacker:
"Don't shoot—don't."
Sash, who was looking straight over his horse's head, turned at hearing this just in time to receive a bullet in the hollow spot under his left ear. It passed clean through his head. Both arms flew into the air, his horse sprang forward, and Sash laid upon the ground flat on his back, with arms spread out from his body—dead. His face was ashen white, eyes and mouth closed, both fists clinched.
It was young Snow who tied the black charger to a wagon wheel, replacing the bridle with a halter. The horse whinnied, pawed the dirt, and for a time spun around as far as the halter strap would allow, and looked at his prostrate master with what seemed to be almost human intelligence; in fact, his body was soon in a white lather, necessitating a rub-down and then a blanket. He trembled like a leaf and snorted and pawed the earth for an hour.
Sash's camp was on the south bank of the Platte. There Preston was delivered by Wagon Boss Martin and a delegation of the bull outfit fellows after he had tried to escape.
That night, together with a negro boy, Snow stood guard over Sash's body to protect it from the coyotes, for they were numerous, close at hand and howled mournfully until break of day.
None touched the body, as it had been determined to follow what was believed to be the law, for this time the outfit was only fifty miles from where at least a pretense of regularity was observed.
A rider was dispatched to Sidney, then a scattered lot of board shanties on the south side of the Union Pacific Railroad track.