“Mac, I wuz as cool as a coocumber. An’ as to buryin’ Larry King, I’m proud an’ sorry. He wuz Neale’s fri’nd.”
“My Gawd! but he wor chain lightnin’, Casey. They said he shot the woman Stanton, too.”
“Mac, thet wore a dom’ lie, I bet,” replied Casey. “He shot up Stanton’s hall, an’ a bullet from some of thim wot was foightin’ him must hev hit her.”
“Mebbe. But it wor bad bizness. That cowboy hit iviry wan of thim fellars in the same place. Shure, they niver blinked afther.”
“An’ Mac, the best an’ dirtiest job we’ve had on this,” Casey’s huge hand indicated a row of freshly filled graves, “U. P. was the plantin’ of thim fellars,” over which the desert sand was seeping. Then dropping his spade, he bent to the quiet figure.
“Lay hold, Mac,” he said.
They lowered the corpse into the hole. Casey stood up, making a sign of the cross before him.
“He wor a man!”
Then they filled the grave.
“Mac, wouldn’t it be dacent to mark where Larry King’s buried? A stone or wooden cross with his name?”