"I
seed 'im run in as we rid up."
The leader, who sat on a restive horse near Westerfelt, called out:
"Hello in thar, Bill Washburn; git out some'n to put yore man on.
Hurry up, ur we'll take you along to see the fun."
Washburn opened the office door and came out slowly.
"What do _you_ say, Mr. Westerfelt? It's yore property. I won't move
a peg agin the man that I work fer ef eve'y dam Whitecap in Christendom
orders it."
"Care_ful_, care_ful_, young man; none o' your lip!" said the leader,
half admiringly.
"Give 'em the lot!" It was the first time Westerfelt had spoken.
Washburn made no reply, but went slowly back into the stable.
Westerfelt's dying horse raised his head and groaned. A man near the
animal dismounted and drew his revolver.
"What d' you say?" said he to Westerfelt. "Hadn't I better put 'im out
o' his misery?"
"I'd be much obliged if you would." Westerfelt turned his face away.
There was a moment's pause. The man waited for the horse's head to
become still. Then he fired.
"Thanks," said Westerfelt. He looked round at the crowd, wondering
which of the men could be Toot Wambush.
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