The dying man shook his head eagerly.  “They won’t; they’re both—­dead.  One was killed—­last night.  The other when we first tried—­to make a getaway.  It—­it’s up to you, boys.”

Pink swallowed twice, and knelt beside him; the others remained standing, grouped like mourners around an open grave.

“Yuh needn’t worry about us,” Pink said softly, “You can count on us, old boy.  If you’re dead sure a doctor—­”

“Drop it!” the other broke in harshly.  “I don’t want to live.  And if I did, I couldn’t.  I ain’t guessing—­I know.”

They said little, after that.  The wounded man seemed apathetically waiting for the end, and not inclined to further speech.  Since they had tacitly promised to do as he wished, he lay with eyes half closed, watching idly the clouds drifting across to the skyline, hardly moving.

The Happy Family sat listlessly around on convenient rocks, and watched the clouds also, and the yellow patches of foam racing down the muddy creek.  Very quiet they were—­so quiet that little, brown birds hopped close, and sang from swaying weeds almost within reach of them.  The Happy Family listened dully to the songs, and waited.  They did not even think to make a cigarette.

The sun climbed higher and shone hotly down upon them.  The dying man blinked at the glare, and Happy Jack took off his hat and tilted it over the face of the other, and asked him if he wouldn’t like to be moved into the shade.

“No matter—­I’ll be in the shade—­soon enough,” he returned quietly, and something gripped their throats to aching.  His voice, they observed, was weaker than it had been.

Weary took a long breath, and moved closer.  “I wish you’d let us get help,” he said, wistfully.  It all seemed so horribly brutal, their sitting around him like that, waiting passively for him to die.

“I know—­yuh hate it.  But it’s—­all yuh can do.  It’s all I want.”  He took his eyes from the drifting, white clouds, and looked from face to face.  “You’re the whitest bunch—­I’d like to know—­who yuh are.  Maybe I can put in—­a good word for yuh—­on the new range—­where I’m going.  I’d sure like to do—­something—­”

“Then for the Lord’s sake, don’t say such things!” cried Pink, shakily.  “You’ll have us—­so damn broke up—­”

“All right—­I won’t.  So long,—­boys.  See yuh later—­”

“Mamma!” whispered Weary, and got up hastily and walked away.  Slim followed him a few paces, then turned resolutely and went back.  It seemed cowardly to leave the rest to bear it—­and somebody had to.  They were breathing quickly, and they were staring across the coulee with eyes that saw nothing; their lips were shut very tightly together.  Weary came back and stood with his back turned.  Pink moved a bit, glanced furtively at the long, quiet figure beside him, and dropped his face into his gloved hands.

Glory threw up his head, glanced across the coulee at a band of range horses trooping down a gully to drink at the river, and whinnied shrilly.  The Happy Family started and awoke to the stern necessities of life.  They stood up, and walked a little way from the spot, avoiding one another’s eyes.