Both turned away. They untied the two horses and led them up to where the saddles lay. Swiftly the blankets went on, swiftly the saddles swung up, swiftly the cinches snapped. Anson lay gazing up at Wilson, comprehending this move. And Wilson stood strangely grim and silent, somehow detached coldly from that self of the past few hours.
"Shady, you grab some bread an' I'll pack a bunk of meat," said Moze. Both men came near the fire, into the light, within ten feet of where the leader lay.
"Fellars--you ain't--slopin'?" he whispered, in husky amaze.
"Boss, we air thet same. We can't do you no good an' this hole ain't healthy," replied Moze.
Shady Jones swung himself astride his horse, all about him sharp, eager, strung.
"Moze, I'll tote the grub an' you lead out of hyar, till we git past the wust timber," he said.
"Aw, Moze--you wouldn't leave--Jim hyar--alone," implored Anson.
"Jim can stay till he rots," retorted Moze. "I've hed enough of this hole."
"But, Moze--it ain't square--" panted Anson. "Jim wouldn't--leave me. I'd stick--by you.... I'll make it--all up to you."
"Snake, you're goin' to cash," sardonically returned Moze.
A current leaped all through Anson's stretched frame. His ghastly face blazed. That was the great and the terrible moment which for long had been in abeyance. Wilson had known grimly that it would come, by one means or another. Anson had doggedly and faithfully struggled against the tide of fatal issues. Moze and Shady Jones, deep locked in their self-centered motives, had not realized the inevitable trend of their dark lives.
Anson, prostrate as he was, swiftly drew his gun and shot Moze. Without sound or movement of hand Moze fell. Then the plunge of Shady's horse caused Anson's second shot to miss. A quick third shot brought no apparent result but Shady's cursing resort to his own weapon. He tried to aim from his plunging horse. His bullets spattered dust and gravel over Anson. Then Wilson's long arm stretched and his heavy gun banged. Shady collapsed in the saddle, and the frightened horse, throwing him, plunged out of the circle of light. Thudding hoofs, crashings of brush, quickly ceased.
"Jim--did you--git him?" whispered Anson.
"Shore did, Snake," was the slow, halting response. Jim Wilson must have sustained a sick shudder as he replied. Sheathing his gun, he folded a blanket and put it under Anson's head.
"Jim--my feet--air orful cold," whispered Anson.
"Wal, it's gittin' chilly," replied Wilson, and, taking a second blanket, he laid that over Anson's limbs. "Snake, I'm feared Shady hit you once."