"Where did you get the notion I was yellow, old-timer? I've hunted in couples with you for years. Do you reckon I'm goin' to run like a cur now you've struck a streak o' bad luck?" asked Dinsmore huskily.
The dying man smiled his thanks. "You always was a stubborn son-of-a-gun, Homer. But Steve, he wants—"
"Steve can go to—Hell Creek, if he's so set on travelin' in a hurry. Here, drink some of this water."
The blanket of darkness fell over the land. Stars came out, at first one or two, then by thousands, till the night was full of them. The wounded man dozed and stirred and dozed again. It was plain that the sands of his life were running low. Dinsmore, watching beside him, knew that it was the ebb tide.
A little after midnight Overstreet roused himself, recognized the watcher, and nodded good-bye.
"So long, Homer. I'm hittin' the home trail now."
His hand groped feebly till it found that of his friend. A few minutes later he died, still holding the strong warm hand of the man who was nursing him.
Dinsmore crossed the hands of the dead outlaw and covered him with a blanket.
"Saddle up, Steve," he told Gurley.
While he waited for the horses, he looked down with a blur over his eyes. He had ridden hard and crooked trails all his life, but he had lost that day his brother and his best friend. The three of them had been miscreants. They had broken the laws of society and had fought against it because of the evil in them that had made them a destructive force. But they had always played fair with each other. They had at least been loyal to their own bad code. Now he was alone, for Gurley did not count.