Neale whirled at the sharp change of tone.
Shane lay face down on the floor of the car, his bloody hands gripping his rifle. His position was inert, singularly expressive.
Neale strode toward him. But Casey reached him first. He laid a hesitating hand on Shane’s shoulder.
“Shane, old mon!” he said, but the cheer was not in his voice.
Casey dropped his pipe! Then he turned his comrade over. Shane had done his best and his last for the U. P. R.
17
Neale and Larry and Slingerland planned to go into the hills late in the fall, visit Slingerland’s old camp, and then try to locate the gold buried by Horn. For the present Larry meant to return to Benton, and Neale, though vacillating as to his own movements, decided to keep an eye on the cowboy.
The trapper’s last words to Neale were interesting. “Son,” he said, “there’s a feller hyar in Medicine Bow who says as how he thought your pard Larry was a bad cowpuncher from the Pan Handle of Texas.”
“Bad?” queried Neale.