Hart did not argue. He knew how Dave stuck to a thing like a terrier to a rat. He would not leave the ground till orders came from Emerson Crawford.
"Lemme go an' report," suggested Shorty. "I wanta get my bronc an' light out pronto. Never can tell when Applegate might drap around an' ask questions. Me, I'm due in the hills."
"All right," agreed Bob. "See Crawford himself, Shorty."
The outlaw pulled himself to the saddle and cantered off.
"Best man in my gang," Dave said, following him with his eyes. "There to a finish and never a whimper out of him. Dragged a man out of the fire when he might have been hustling for his own skin."
"Shorty's game," admitted Hart. "Pity he went bad."
"Yes. He told me he didn't kill Harrigan."
"Reckon Dug did that. More like him."
Half an hour later the relief came. Hart, Dave, and the three fire-fighters who had stayed to watch rode back to camp.
Crawford had lost his voice. He had already seen Hart since the fire had subsided, so his greeting was to Sanders.