He wandered out on the railroad, half-distraught And peeped from behind a water-tank at the raiders. “Squire, don’t go any farther,” said Higgins. “It ain’t safe.” He hardly heard him, he had to look out again. Who were these devils with horns who were shooting his people? They didn’t look like devils. One was a boy Smooth-cheeked, with a bright half-dreamy face, a little Like Sally’s eldest. Suddenly, the air struck him A stiff, breath-taking blow. “Oh,” he said, astonished. Took a step and fell on his face, shot through the heart. Higgins watched him for twenty minutes, wanting to lift him But not quite daring. Then he turned away And went back to the town. The bars had been open all day, Never to better business. When the news of Beckham’s death spread from bar to bar, It was like putting loco-weed in the whiskey,