“You sure rang a bull’s eye, Parson, when you pulled them Bible texts on me. At that, maybe I’d ’a’ fooled you if you hadn’t spoiled my aim that first shot.”
“You realize——”
“—that I got more’n I can carry? Sure do.”
Marston forgot that this man was the worst desperado Nevada had ever known. He remembered only that the soul of Sam Dutch, a poor erring human being, was about to meet its Maker.
“His mercy endureth for ever. Repent. Repent and be saved,” he exhorted earnestly.
“Too late, Parson,” Dutch answered feebly. “I’m a—dyed-in-the-wool sinner—an’ I’m—hittin’ the trail—for hell.”
“It’s never too late. ‘While the light holds out to burn, the vilest sinner may return.’ That’s you, Sam.”
“That’s sure me, but—I don’t reckon—I’ll——”
His body stiffened suddenly, then relaxed limply. He was dead.
The two men rose and looked at each other. Hugh spoke first.