"I've sent one of the boys to Graham's for a wagon," said the Sergeant.
"You saw the man who fired at him?"
"Yes, sir," said Trooper Payne.
"You knew him?" and there was a ring in the Sergeant's voice.
"Yes, sir," said the trooper. "At least he was riding Winston's horse,
and had on the old long coat of his."
Sergeant Stimson nodded, and pointed to the weapon lying with blackened
muzzle at his feet. "And I think you could recognize that rifle?
There's F. Winston cut on the stock of it."
Payne said nothing, for the trooper signed to him. "I fancy Shannon
wants to talk to you," he said.
The lad knelt down, slipped one arm about his comrade's neck, and took
the mittened hand in his own. Shannon smiled up at him feebly.
"Winston's horse, and his cap," he said, and then stopped, gasping
horribly.
"You will remember that, boys," said the Sergeant.
Payne could say nothing. Trooper Shannon and he had ridden through icy
blizzard and scorching heat together, and he felt his manhood melting
as he looked down into his dimming eyes. There was a curious look in
them which suggested a strenuous endeavor and an appeal, and the lips
moved again.
"It was," said Shannon, and moved his head a little on Payne's arm,
apparently in an agony of effort.
Then the birches roared about them, and drowned the feeble utterance,
while when the gust passed all three, who had not heard what preceded
it, caught only one word, "Winston."
Trooper Shannon's eyes closed, and his head fell back while the snow
beat softly into his upturned face, and there was a very impressive
silence intensified by the moaning of the wind, until the rattle of
wheels came faintly down the trail.
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