It was easy
shootin', come to think of it. Jus' rope a cow, cinch her up tight
with two big straps they had all ready, slip a hook through the
belly-band, an' lower away! Pretty smooth, huh?"
"And they all got away?"
"No, they didn't," said Barbee queerly. "I got one of 'em!"
"You did?" Steve swung back toward him eagerly. "Who is he, Barbee?
And where is he? I want a talk with him."
Barbee shook his head and reached for his tobacco and papers. He was
young after all, was Barbee, and this was his first man.
"Andy Sprague, it was," said Barbee. "He's dead now."
There fell a heavy, breathless silence upon the three standing there
under the stars. Terry shivered as though with cold and drew a step
closer to Steve; he felt her hand on his arm. Barbee lighted his
cigarette, his hands steady, but his face looking terribly serious in
the brief-lived light shed upon it.
"I heard you shootin'," said Barbee. "I rode this way, on the jump. I
was only about a mile up the valley; maybe a shade less. He had his
horse close an' was on him an' poundin' leather lively to get out. We
come pretty close to runnin' into each other. I hollered at him to
hold on an' he jus' rode on his spurs an' I shot. Emptied my gun. Got
him twice, bein' that lucky, an' him that unlucky. He slid off his
cayuse an' clawed aroun' an'--an' he's dead now," ended Barbee briefly.
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