The Padre listened without moving a muscle--the story so perfectly fitted in with his thoughts.
"The Kid isn't dead? He isn't going to die?" His voice had neither condemnation nor sympathy in it.
"No. It's jest a flesh wound on the outside of his thigh."
"What was the trouble?"
"Why, the durned young skunk wus jest tryin' to set them--them women payin' a 'party' call on the gal at the farm, an' they wus drunk enough to do it. It made me mad--an'--an', wal, we got busy with our tongues, an' I shot him up fair an' squar'."
"And how about Beasley?"
"Why, it was him set the Kid to git the women on the racket. When he see how I'd stopped it he got madder than hell, an' went right out fer lynchin' me. The boys wus drunk enough to listen to his lousy talk."
"Was he drunk?"
"Not on your life. Beasley's too sweet on the dollars. But I guess he's got his knife into that Golden Woman of ours."
The Padre had no more questions to ask. He dropped back into the room and lit the oil lamp.
"Come right in, Curly," he said kindly. Then he laid his rifle on the table and pointed at it. "The magazine's loaded plumb up. Guess no man has a right to give up his life without a kick. That'll help you if they come along--which they won't. Maybe Buck'll be along directly. Don't shoot him down. Anyway he's got Cæsar with him--so you'll know. I'm going down to the camp."
For a second the two men looked into each other's eyes. The Padre read the suspicion in Curly's. He also saw the unhealthy lines in his cheeks and round his mouth. Nor could he help feeling disgusted at the thoughts of the fortune that had come to the camp and brought all these hideous changes in its wake.
He shook his head.
"I'm not giving you away," he said. "Guess I'll be back in an hour."
Curly nodded and moved over to one of the two chairs.
"Thanks, Padre," he said as the other passed quickly out of the room.