the doorway by the boots and laid him on the floor under the window. One of them took the dust-cloth from the roulette wheel and covered the still form.
"You gals get back into the dance hall an' take yore pardners with you," suggested Mara, his eyes emphasizing the command. "Hurt any, Lyman?" he asked, scanning the features of the prospector which were turning a queer gray underneath the bronze. Already he had whispered to Stone to "get out of this soon's we can."
"I'm still standin', ain't I?" he answered. "We're all goin' up to the cabin, Mara, 'case you want me. The name of that skunk was Sam Lowe. What was between him an' me was personal. He got what was comin' to him. He was assayer by business, an' as crooked in that as in everything. Come along, boys. If that's all right, marshal?"
Mara nodded. He was a man of few words. Mining camp law was primitive. To shoot in self-defence was justifiable. The onus rested with the aggressor. The man who had pulled first was dead and that ended the episode so far as justice was concerned. He strolled over to the bar and took the drink the bartender had poured out for him.
Stone tucked his arm into that of Lyman's, sensing that the prospector was more badly hurt than he acknowledged. Healy and Lefty followed.
At the door Lyman paused.
"I want to look at him," he said to Stone. Stone lifted the cloth from the face of the dead man and
