That dead
oppressive silence lasted but a moment, from out of it came a cry
that smote on the wounded man's ears and reached his
consciousness.
"It's Price--" he gasped, his words bathed in blood. and he
pitched forward on his face.
Ware and Fentress had heard the cry, too, and running to their
horses threw themselves into the saddle and galloped off. The
judge midway of the meadow roared out a furious protest but the
mounted men turned into the highroad and vanished from sight, and
the judge's shaking legs bore him swiftly in the direction of the
gaunt figure on the ground.
Mahaffy struggled to rise, for he was hearing his friend's voice
now, the voice of utter anguish, calling his name. At last
painful effort brought him to his knees. He saw the judge,
clothed principally in a gaily colored bed-quilt, hatless and
shoeless, his face sodden and bleary from his night's debauch.
Mahaffy stood erect and staggered toward him, his hand over his
wound, his features drawn and livid, then with a cry he dropped
at his friend's feet.
"Solomon! Solomon!" And the judge knelt beside him.
"It's all right, Price; I kept your appointment," whispered
Mahaffy; a bloody spume was gathering on his lips, and he stared
up at his friend with glassy eyes.
In very shame the judge hid his face in his hands, while sobs
shook him.
"Solomon--Solomon, why did you do this?" he cried miserably.
The harsh lines on the dying man's face erased themselves.
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