“What about the kid?” Stone asked Blackwell as the latter came up.
“They got him. Didn’t you hear him yelp?”
“Yes, but did they put him out of business? See his body?”
Blackwell had no intention of going back into the fire zone and making sure. For his part he was satisfied. So he lied.
“Yep. Blew the top of his head off.”
“Good,” Soapy nodded. “That’s a receipt in full for Mr. Luck Cullison.”
The wheels began to move. Soon they were hitting only the high spots. Curly guessed they must be doing close to sixty miles an hour. Down where he was the dust was flying so thickly he could scarce breathe, as it usually does on an Arizona track in the middle of summer.
Before many minutes the engine began to slow down. The wheels had hardly stopped moving when Curly crept out, plowed through the sand, up the rubble of a little hill, and into a draw where a bunch of scrub oaks offered cover.
A voice from in front called to him. Just then the moon appeared from behind drifting clouds.
“Oh, it’s you, Sam. Everything all right?”