Moze bent close over Anson, took a short scrutiny of that ghastly face, at the blood-stained lips, and the lean hands plucking at nothing. Then he jerked erect.
“Shady, he's goin' to cash. Let's clear out of this.”
“I'm yours pertickler previous,” replied Jones.
Both turned away. They untied the two horses and led them up to where the saddles lay. Swiftly the blankets went on, swiftly the saddles swung up, swiftly the cinches snapped. Anson lay gazing up at Wilson, comprehending this move. And Wilson stood strangely grim and silent, somehow detached coldly from that self of the past few hours.
“Shady, you grab some bread an' I'll pack a bunk of meat,” said Moze. Both men came near the fire, into the light, within ten feet of where the leader lay.
“Fellars—you ain't—slopin'?” he whispered, in husky amaze.
“Boss, we air thet same. We can't do you no good an' this hole ain't healthy,” replied Moze.
Shady Jones swung himself astride his horse, all about him sharp, eager, strung.
“Moze, I'll tote the grub an' you lead out of hyar, till we git past the wust timber,” he said.
“Aw, Moze—you wouldn't leave—Jim hyar—alone,” implored Anson.