“Jack, we got—to be—good friends. Don't forget—that—when you meet—Holderness. He shot me—from behind Chance and Culver—and after I fell—I killed them both—trying to get him. You—won't hang up—your gun—again—will you?”
Hare wrung the cold hand clasping his so feebly. “No! Dave, no!” Then he fled from the room. For an hour he stood on the porch waiting in dumb misery. George and Zeke came noiselessly out, followed by their father.
“It's all over, Hare.” Another tragedy had passed by this man of the desert, and left his strength unshaken, but his deadly quiet and the gloom of his iron face were more terrible to see than any grief.
“Father, and you, Hare, come out into the road,” said George.
Another motionless form lay beyond Chance and Culver. It was that of a slight man, flat on his back, his arms wide, his long black hair in the dust. Under the white level brow the face had been crushed into a bloody curve.
“Dene!” burst from Hare, in a whisper.
“Killed by a horse!” exclaimed August Naab. “Ah! What horse?”
“Silvermane!” replied George.
“Who rode my horse—tell me—quick!” cried Hare, in a frenzy.
“It was Mescal. Listen. Let me tell you how it all happened. I was out at the forge when I heard a bunch of horses coming up the lane. I wasn't packing my gun, but I ran anyway. When I got to the house there was Dave facing Snap, Dene, and a bunch of rustlers. I saw Chance at first, but not Holderness. There must have been twenty men.