I fell on the stairs, but I saw that flaming-faced devil kill four of Durade’s men. He got Allie Lee out. Later I heard he had been killed and that Durade had caught the girl.
Neale, hurry to find her. Kill that Spaniard. No man could tell why he has spared her, but I tell you he will not spare her long.
Don’t ever forget Hough or Ancliffe or that terrible cowboy. Ancliffe’s death was beautiful. I am cold. It’s hard to write. All is darkening. I hear the moan of wind. Forgive me! Neale, the difference between me and Allie Lee—is a good man’s love. Men are blind to woman’s agony. She laid her cheek here—on my breast. I—who always wanted a child. I shall die alone. No—I think God is here. There is some one! After all, I was a woman. Neale forgive—
31
“Wor I there?” echoed McDermott, as he wiped the clammy sweat from his face. “B’gosh, I wor!”
It was half-past five. There appeared to be an unusual number of men on the street, not so hurried and business-like and merry as generally, and given to collecting in groups, low-voiced and excited.
General Lodge drew McDermott inside. “Come. You need a bracer. Man, you look sick,” he said.
At the bar McDermott’s brown and knotty hand shook as he lifted a glass and gulped a drink of whisky.
“Gineral, I ain’t the mon I wuz,” complained McDermott. “Casey’s gone! An’ we had hell wid the Injuns gittin’ here. An’ thin jest afther I stepped off the train—it happened.”