"He's gone! Oh, my Gawd! He's gone south!" screamed Block, unable to withhold utterance another second.
Loudon held the quirt poised over his shoulder.
"Yuh mean Rufe Cutting?" he inquired.
"Both of 'em! Rufe an' the hoss! They're both gone!"
"Yuh mean Rufe has took my hoss away?"
"Yes! Yes! Don't hit me with that again."
Loudon did not know whether to believe the sheriff. It was more than possible that Block was lying to escape further punishment. Loudon stared at him. He made an ugly picture lying there on the floor, his face a network of red welts. His shirt was dabbled and stained with the blood from his wounded ears.
"I was goin' to give yuh a chance," said Loudon, slowly. "I was aimin' to give yuh yore gun an' let yuh shoot it out with me. But I can't do that now. Yuh ain't in no shape for shootin'. It'd be like murder to down yuh, an' I ain't goin' to practise murder even on a dog like you. I'm kind o' sorry I feel that way about it. Yuh don't deserve to live a minute."
"You keel heem," put in Laguerre. "She try for keel you een de Ben'. Or I keel heem. I don' care. So she die, dat's enough."
"Can't be did, Telescope."