Part 35 (2/2)
”Half in h.e.l.l already--stewing for my sins--but it's not that--it's--”
”What, Bucky?”
”That bug! Me, Bucky Greenfield--to go down and out on account of a bug--a little squirmy bug! But I swear even he couldn't have done it if the desert hadn't put me out of business first! No, by G.o.d! I'm not downed so easy as that!”
Frawley, in a lame attempt to show his sympathy, went closer to the dying man:
”I say, Bucky.”
”Shout away.”
”Wouldn't you like to go out, standing, on your feet--with your boots on?”
Greenfield laughed, a contented laugh.
”What's the matter, pal?” said Frawley, pausing in surprise.
”You darned old Englishman,” said Greenfield affectionately. ”Say, Bub.”
”Yes, Bucky.”
”The d.i.n.kies are all right--but--but a Yank, a real Yank, would 'a' got me in six months.”
”All right, Bucky. Shall I raise you up?”
”H'ist away.”
”Would you like the feeling of a gun in your hand again?” said Frawley, raising him up.
This time Greenfield did not laugh, but his hand closed convulsively over the b.u.t.t, and he gave a savage sigh of delight. His limbs contracted violently, his head bore heavily on the shoulder of Frawley, who heard him whisper again:
”A bug--a little--”
Then he stopped and appeared to listen. Outside, the evening was soft and stirring. Through the door the children appeared, tumbling over one another, in grotesque att.i.tudes.
Suddenly, as though in the breeze he had caught the sound of a step, Greenfield jerked almost free of Frawley's arms, shuddered, and fell back rigid. The pistol, flung into the air, twirled, pitched on the floor, and remained quiet.
Frawley placed the body back on the bed of leaves, listened a moment, and rose satisfied. He threw a blanket over the face, picked up the revolver, searched a moment for his hat, and went out to arrange with the Mexican for the night. In a moment he returned and took a seat in the corner, and began carefully to jot down the details on a piece of paper. Presently he paused and looked reflectively at the bed of leaves.
”It's been a good three years,” he said reflectively. He considered a moment, rapping the pencil against his teeth, and repeated: ”A good three years. I think when I get home I'll ask for a week or so to stretch myself.” Then he remembered with anxiety how Greenfield had railed at his lack of imagination and pondered a moment seriously.
Suddenly, as though satisfied, he said with a nod of conviction:
”Well, now, we did jog about a bit!”
LARRY MOORE
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