One word hung on the bloodless lips, lacking the breath for utterance. It came finally—a gasp.
Madge!
A choking convulsion followed it. The prospector's will released its mastery over death. Crimson froth of blood and air bubbled up and then the choked lungs emitted the blood that had slowly gathered in their overburdened cells. Lyman had gone "across the range."
In that still presence the gold on the bed lost its glamour. Stone went to the door and called.
"Did you get it?" asked Healy. Stone looked at him, disgustedly.
"You're a cold-blooded sort of hound, Healy," he said. "Help me to lay him out." Healy's thin lips drew back.
"Do it yourself and be damned to you," he said. And one hand slid back toward his hip pocket. As they stood facing each other, Stone trying to restrain his wrath, that had leaped to confront Healy's mood, Lefty suddenly pinioned Healy's elbows from behind in a grasp that held him helpless. When he struggled Lefty lifted him off his feet and shook him.
"You bloody fool!" he said. "Wot's the hidea of startin' a scrap? We've got to stand together, we 'ave. Thick an' thin. Get me?"
Healy calmed suddenly, his face a mask.
"You're right. Lefty," he said. "We're all in on this even. The old fox! I'm damned if he isn't grinning at us!"
