"Gimme a drink," he whispered huskily.
Mac propped him up so that he could sip from the hat. He came near going
off again, but rallied, and in a second or two his lips framed a
question:
"Did yuh--get 'em?"
I shook my head. "You might say that they got us," I answered.
"Who were they, Hans?" MacRae questioned eagerly. "And why did they do
this to you? We'll make them sweat blood for this night's work. Did you
know them? Tell us if you can."
"No," Rutter spoke with a great effort. Each sentence came as if torn
piecemeal from his unwilling tongue; short, jerky phrases, conceived in
pain and delivered in agony. "We--me'n Hank Rowan--comin' from the
North--made a stake on the Peace. They started it--at the Stone--yuh
know--Writin'-Stone. Hank an' me--you'll find Hank in the
cottonwoods--Stony Crossin'. I tried--tried t' make Walsh. Two of
'em--masked--tried t' make me tell--tell 'em--where we made the _cache_.
I'm--I'm done--I guess. The dust, it's--it's--_a-a-ah_----"
The gnarled hands shut up into clenched fists, and the feeble voice
trailed off in an agonized moan.
I laved his pain-twisted face with the cool water and let a few drops
trickle into his open mouth. He gasped a few times, then, gathering
strength again, went on with that horrible spasmodic recitation.
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