Lyman stooped, with an effort, peering at the waxen face in the shadow.
"It's him all right," he said. "I wanted to be sure. Come on, boys. Hold on a minute. Lefty, you get a pint of whisky and bring it along. I'm goin' to need it."
As they stepped out into the cold, clear twilight, where the peaks showed sharp against the golden olive of the fading sky, Lyman staggered. Healy caught at his other arm.
"Reckon you'll have to carry me, boys," said Lyman, and his voice wheezed. "I'm leaking air like a ripped bellows. Got me in the lungs. Bleeding's internal. I c'ud make it to the cabin but I want to save my strength. Got a lot to tell ye. Give me a swig o' that whisky 'fore we start, Lefty."
Stone grasped his left wrist with his right hand and Healy followed his example. Between them they made an interwoven seat for Lyman. It wasn't far to their cabin and it was downhill all the way.
Behind then the raucous orchestrion in the dance hall started up again and the dancers glided and shuffled over the floor. The bartender, busy with a rush of orders, sent out for a helper before the other's watch was on. Save for the dwindling talk of the witnesses, the incident was closed, the stiffening form under the roulette table's dust cloth forgotten until two Mexicans, commandeered by Mara, came up the hill to take it away.
