Something sweet and vibrant in the voice lingered afterward in the Texan's mind almost like a caress, but at the time he was too busy to think of this. He dropped behind a cottonwood, and drew his revolver.
“How many of them are there?” he asked of the lad, in a whisper.
“About six, I think. I'm sorry I shot at you.”
“What's the row?”
“They followed us out of Gimlet Butte. They've been drinking. Isn't that some one climbing up the side of the ridge?”
“I believe it is. Let me have your rifle, kid.”
“What for?” The youngster took careful aim, and fired.
A scream from the sagebrush—just one, and then no more.
“Bully for you', Arlie,” the old man said.
None of them spoke for some minutes, then Fraser heard a sob—a stifled one, but unmistakable none the less.