Sing heigh, sing ho, for the Cavalier!
Sing heigh, sing ho, for the Crown.
Gentlemen all, turn out, turn out;
We'll keep these Roundheads down!
Down--down--down--down.
We'll ke--ep these Round--heads down!
Once--twice, the chorus of that old English Royalist song rose up out of
the grove. Then it died away, and we turned to go. And as we struck home
the spurs, remembering the mouth of Sage Creek and the dark that was
closing down, a six-shooter barked sharply, back among the trees.
I swung my horse around in his tracks and raced him back to the poplars,
knowing what I would find, and yet refusing to believe. I will not say
that his big heart had failed him; perhaps it did not seem to him worth
while to face the somber shadows to the bitter end, lying alone in that
deep hollow in the earth. It may be that the night looked long and
comfortless, and it was his wish to go out with the sun. He lay beside
the fallen tree, his eyes turned blankly to the darkening sky, the
six-shooter in his hand as he had held it for the last time. I
straightened his arms, and covered his face with the blood-stained coat
and left him to his long sleep. And even old Piegan lifted his hat and
murmured "Amen" in all sincerity as we turned away.
CHAPTER XIX.
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