Andy was carrying a rifle,
evidently taken from one of the men--Oleson, they judged for the
guilty one. Half the distance was covered when Andy was seen to
turn his head and speak briefly with the Native Son, after which
he lunged past the captives and galloped up to the waiting group.
His quick eye sought first the face of Happy Jack in anxious
questioning; then, miserably, he searched the faces of his
friends.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed mechanically, dismounted and bent over
the figure on the ground. For a long minute he knelt there; he
laid his ear close to Happy Jack's mouth, took off his glove and
laid his hand over Happy's heart; reached up, twitched off his
neckerchief, shook out the creases and spread it reverently over
Happy Jack's face. He stood up then and spoke slowly, his eyes
fixed upon the stumbling approach of the captives.
"Pink told us Happy had been shot, so we rode around and come up
behind 'em. It was a cinch. And--say, boys, we've got the Dots in
a pocket. They've got to eat outa our hands, now. So don't think
about--our own feelings, or about--" he stopped abruptly and let
a downward glance finish the sentence. "We've got to keep our own
hands clean, and--now don't let your fingers get the itch, Bud!"
This, because of certain manifestations of a murderous intent on
the part of Big Medicine.
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