Bolivar, he's plenty tired, and he can't carry double."
"We been pards, me and you, Shark Dodson, for three year," Bob said
quietly. "We've risked our lives together time and again. I've
always give you a square deal, and I thought you was a man. I've
heard some queer stories about you shootin' one or two men in a
peculiar way, but I never believed 'em. Now if you're just havin' a
little fun with me, Shark, put your gun up, and we'll get on Bolivar
and vamose. If you mean to shoot--shoot, you blackhearted son of a
tarantula!"
Shark Dodson's face bore a deeply sorrowful look. "You don't know how
bad I feel," he sighed, "about that sorrel of yourn breakin' his leg,
Bob."
The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of cold
ferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the man showed
itself for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputable
house.
Truly Bob Tidball was never to "hit the breeze" again. The deadly .45
of the false friend cracked and filled the gorge with a roar that the
walls hurled back with indignant echoes. And Bolivar, unconscious
accomplice, swiftly bore away the last of the holders-up of the
"Sunset Express," not put to the stress of "carrying double."
But as "Shark" Dodson galloped away the woods seemed to fade from his
view; the revolver in his right hand turned to the curved arm of a
mahogany chair; his saddle was strangely upholstered, and he opened
his eyes and saw his feet, not in stirrups, but resting quietly on the
edge of a quartered-oak desk.
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