Part 29 (1/2)

”Yes,” replied Shock, greatly surprised at his visitor, but warming to the Scotch voice.

”Aye. Ye're wanted.”

”Wanted? By whom?”

”The man that lives in this hoose. He's deein', I'm thinkin'.”

”Dying!” said Shock, starting up and seizing his hat. ”What! Ike?”

”Aye, Ike. He's verra ill.”

”Go on, then,” said Shock. ”Quick!”

”Aye, quick it is.” And the little man, without further words, plunged into the darkness. A few minutes' swift walk through the black night brought them to the Ranchers' Roost. There, in a corner of the room at the back of the bar, he found Ike lying almost unconscious, and apparently very ill.

”Why, what's the matter?” cried Shock, dropping on his knees beside Ike. But Ike seemed stupefied, and mumbled a few incoherent words.

Shock caught the words, ”the gang,” and ”dope.”

He looked in an agony of helplessness at the little Scotchman, who stood by looking down upon the sick man with face quite unmoved.

”Do you know what he says?” enquired Shock.

”He's no sayin' much,” said the little Scotchman calmly.

Again Ike tried to speak, and this time Shock caught the words, ”The boss--gang's got him--Smiley Simmons--back room--fetch him.”

”What does he mean?” cried Shock.

”It's ha-r-r-d to tell that,” said the little Scotchman. ”He's talkin'

about some boss or other.”

”Oh, yes, I know what that means. He is referring to his boss, young Stanton.”

”Oh, ay!” said the little Scotchman, with a light breaking on his face.

”I saw the bodies. They've gaen o'er to the creature Simmons'.”

”Show me the way,” said Shock. ”Quick!”

”Come, then,” said the little Scotchman, leading once more into the darkness.

Some distance down the street stood Smiley--or as some preferred to call him Slimy--Simmons' general store. At the back of the store there was a side door.

”They're in yonder,” said the little Scotchman, and disappeared.

Shock knocked at the door, but there was no response. He turned the handle, opened the door, and walking in found himself in the back of the store, in a room dimly lighted by a hanging lantern. Seated on a stool at a high desk, evidently busy with his ledger, sat a man, tall, slender, and wiry. He had a sharp, thin face, with high forehead, protruding nose, and receding chin. The moment he spoke Shock discovered at once how it was he came by his nickname.

His smile was the most striking characteristic of his manner. Indeed, so permanent and pervasive did his smile appear, that it seemed almost to be a fixed feature of his face.

He came forward to Shock, rubbing his hands.