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 punished that nobody ever had been heard to express pity for his affliction.

"Git water! Put it out!" he yelped, sobered up considerably at sight of the destruction. "I've got a two-thousand-dollar stock in there! Put it out—put it out!"

Nobody spared him much attention, seeing he was unarmed, in his shirt sleeves, his vest unbuttoned, his big watch chain dangling. The collarless band of his stiffbosomed white shirt was fastened tight around his muscular, corded neck; there were dribblings of his late potations down its front. He went running circles around the cheap, flimsy building, and the public of Drumwell, guilty and not guilty, came out of its holes to witness the spectacle and laugh at a plea which was the last anybody ever expected to hear from the booze-lapping mouth of Eddie Kane.

"Git water, git water!" he yelled. "For God's sake, men, git water!"

A man came to the door waving a white handkerchief, and Waco Johnson said come out, cuss you, and say it. They had a wounded man in there, the man said; they asked permission to carry him out, and for everybody to follow, peacefully. Come on, said Waco, and come with your hands above your heads, all that were not carrying the wounded man.

Four came out carrying the lumber dealer on a table. He had a mess of buckshot in his back and looked as if he was not long for this world. Waco Johnson checked him off. The others followed, fourteen in all, some of them innocent cowboys who had not been permitted by the