“Good shot!” commented the sheriff.  “That’ll about put ’em on foot.  What, did they get you?”

Dan Anderson drew back from the crest and rolled up his shirt-sleeve above an arm now wet with blood.  A bullet had cut through the upper arm above the elbow.

“Serves you mighty near right,” called McKinney to him, “standing up, like a blamed fool!  You suppose them fellers can’t shoot, same as us?”

Doc Tomlinson crawled over to him and examined the hurt.  “It’s all right,” said he.  “Bone ain’t touched.  Let me tie her up.”

A half hour passed without further firing.  Stillson edged around to the point nearest the house.  “Here you, Kid,” he called out.  “Come on out.  We’ve got you on foot, and you might as well give up.”

A dirty rag was thrust out of a window at the end of a rifle-barrel.  “That you, Ben?” called a muffled voice from the adobe.

“You know it is, Kid.  Drop it, and come on out.  We’ve got you sure.”

The day’s work was over.  Dan Anderson remembered afterward how matter of fact and methodical it all had seemed.  A few moments later a short, dirty young man appeared at the door, crawling over the prostrate horse.  He held up his hands, grinning.  He was followed by two others, both chewing tobacco calmly.  The sheriff ordered down his men to meet them.  McKinney unbuckled the belts.  The captives seated themselves a few feet apart on the ground.

“This all the men you’ve got?” asked the Kid.

The sheriff nodded.  “You’ve killed Jim Harbin,” he added, jerking a thumb toward the arroyo.

“Why didn’t he stay home, then?” said the Kid, peevishly.  No one seemed disposed again to mention an unpleasant subject.

“Where you goin’ to take us?” the Kid inquired.

“Vegas.  It’s a United States warrant, and you go dead or alive, either way you want.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Ben.  We’ll take the chance of stayin’ alive a while.”

Stillson now appeared to experience his first concern in regard to his casualties.  “Doc,” said he, “you take the ranch wagon here and carry Jim back to the settlements.  You go along, Anderson.  Doc, you drive.”

“You busted up our breakfast,” said the Kid, in an aggrieved tone.  “Don’t we eat?” He spoke complainingly.  The day’s work was thus concluded.

It was a long ride back for Dan Anderson, lying part of the time himself prone at the bottom of the wagon, too faint to sit with comfort on the narrow, jolting seat.  The long, muffled body of the dead man, wrapped tightly in its blankets, at times rolled against him as the wagon tilted, and he pushed it back gently.  The day’s work had been savage, stern, and simple.  The lesson of the landscape, the lesson of life, came to him as he had never felt it before.  He saw now how little a thing is life, how easy to lay down—­gayly, bitterly, lightly, or quietly perhaps; but not cheaply.  He remembered the last words of the boy who now lay there, shrouded and silent,—­“I’ve got to take my medicine.”