Curly crept through the fence after the escaping man, but in that heavy undergrowth he knew it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. After a time he gave it up and returned to the field of battle.
Dick was bending over Stone. He looked up at the approach of his friend and said just one word.
“Dead.”
Cullison had torn open Cranston’s shirt and was examining his wounds.
“No use, Luck. I’ve got a-plenty. You sure fooled us thorough. Was it Sam gave us away?”
“No, Bill. Curly overheard Soapy and Blackwell at Chalkeye’s Place. Sam stood pat, though you were planning to murder him.”
“I wasn’t in on that, Luck—didn’t know a thing about it till after the boy was shot. I wouldn’t a-stood for it.”
“He wasn’t shot. Curly saved him. He had to give you away to do it.”
“Good enough. Serves Soapy right for double crossing Sam. Take care of that kid, Luck. He’s all right yet.” His eye fell on Flandrau. “You’re a game sport, son. You beat us all. No hard feelings.”
“Sorry it had to be this way, Bill.”