I should have
got the drop and killed him out of hand. While I argued with him, Hicks
slipped a knife into my back, and as I turned on him Lessard shot me.
Ah, well--it'll be all the same a hundred years from now. But I'd like
to put a spoke in their wheel for the sake of that blue-eyed girl.
"MacRae, you and Smith know the mouth of Sage Creek, and the ford there.
That's where they'll camp to-night. I doubt if they'll cross the river
till morning. If you ride you can make it in three hours. From there
they plan to follow Milk River to the Missouri and catch a down-stream
boat. But you'll get them to-night. You must. Now give me another
drink--and drift!"
"We'll get them, Goodell." MacRae rose to his feet as he spoke. "You're
white, if you did get off wrong. I'll remember what you did--for her. Is
there anything we can do for you?"
Goodell shook his head. "I tell you," he said, and turned his head to
look wistfully up at the eastern coulee-rim, all tinted with the blazing
sunset. "I'll go out over the hills with the shadows. An hour--maybe
two. It's my time. I've no complaint to make. All I want is a drink. You
can do no good for a dead man; and the living are sorely in need. It'll
be a bit lonesome, that's all."
"No message for anybody?" MacRae persisted.
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