self again to his knees, and staggered: on.
When he reached the horse, which had not moved farther than to lift its ears at the sound of the firing, Findlay tried to reach up and grasp a stirrup. He felt for it weakly, his efforts failing; rose to his knees, groping as if his sight failed him, and reached for it again.
Watching him from a distance, Barrett felt a compassion for the man that swept away all further thought of vengeance or requital for the indignities and perils he had suffered at his hands. As for himself, the balance between them had been struck; Findlay was free to go his way. With this thought, which brightened over him like a burst of sunlight, Barrett put away his weapon, picked up Findlay's hat and pistol, and went on to where he struggled weakly, one hand grasping the stirrup, the other steadying him on the ground.
As Barrett approached him, Findlay's hold on the stirrup broke. His head drooped, his arms fell limply at his sides. He stood in that posture, upright on his knees. Barrett laid a hand on his shoulder to support him. Findlay rallied a moment, and looked up with failing eyes.
"His own brother, damn him!" he said, as if completing something a moment before unfinished on his tongue.
Barrett eased him to the ground, where, in his last agony, he turned his face to the noonday sky.
Fred Grubb came up, a hushed manner over him, walking on his toes, his pistol in his hand.
"He died game, he went his way like a man!" he said.
