"Dead."
A murmur ran through the listening riders, and they drew closer.
"Both of them?"
"Yes. Joel killed his father, fightin' to get Lucy.... An' I ran—Wildfire over Joel—smashed him!"
"Wal, I'm sorry for the old man," replied Bostil, gruffly. "I meant to make up to him.... But thet fool boy! ... An' Slone—you're all bloody."
He stepped forward and pulled the scarf aside. He was curious and kindly, as if it was beyond him to be otherwise. Yet that dark cold something, almost sullen clung round him.
"Been bored, eh? Wal, it ain't low, an' thet's good. Who shot you?"
"Cordts."
"CORDTS!" Bostil leaned forward in sudden, fierce eagerness.
"Yes, Cordts.... His outfit run across Creech's trail an' we bunched. I can't tell now.... But we had—hell! An' Cordts is dead—so's Hutch—an' that other pard of his.... Bostil, they'll never haunt your sleep again!"