George waited outside, but there was no alarm, and he went back, returning in five minutes with a small but heavy bag of gold pieces that clinked sweetly when he dropped it into his coat pocket.

“You carry this head of cabbage, Kid,” passing me a pack of greenbacks about the size of a brick.

Dawn was graying the east as we went into the stable and bridled the horses. George went out first, pulling his reluctant horse by the bridle rein pulled over his head. In the door his horse stopped, and George, standing outside on the inclined platform, tugged with both hands while I slapped the horse on his rump. Suddenly George dropped the bridle rein and his hand went to the waistband of his trousers for a gun.

A voice shouted, “Here, you damned horse thief,” and a shotgun belched murderously, then again. George got both barrels. He was almost blown off his feet. He toppled over sidewise and his body rolled slowly down the incline to the ground.