"I want some tobacco, anyway."
"Fetch a couple of sticks of dynamite along, Billy. I'll put in one more
shot for to-night."
A distant, reverberating report caused the two men to jerk into
attitudes of tense surprise.
"What the hell!" exclaimed Overland, running toward the tent. "That
wasn't the kid. Collie's only packin' a automatic, and here it is."
He stopped in the tent-door, grabbed up the gun and belt, and ran down
the canon, Winthrop following breathlessly. Near the notch he paused,
motioning Winthrop to one side. "Mebby it was to draw us on. You keep
there, Billy. I'll poke ahead."
But Overland did not go far. He almost stumbled over the prone figure of
Collie. With a cry he tore his handkerchief from his throat and plugged
the wound. "Clean through," he said, getting to his feet. "Get the
whiskey."
"Shan't I help you carry him?" queried Winthrop.
Overland shook his head. "Get the whiskey and get a fire goin'. I'll
bring him."
"Will he--live?" asked Winthrop, hesitating.
"I reckon not, Billy. He was plugged from behind--close--and clean
through. Here's the slug."
Then Overland picked up the limp form. So this was the end of all his
planning and his toil? He cursed himself for having urged Collie to come
to the desert.
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