"'I've seen a tolerable lot of death,' says Helm. 'I ain't afraid of it.'"

"There was about six thousand folks had come in to see the end of Boone
Helm. Somebody asked him if he wanted anything.

"'Whisky,' says Boone. And he got it.

"Then he shook his hand and held it up. He had a sore finger and it
bothered him a lot more than the thought of hangin'.

"'You gents get through with this or else tie up my finger,' he kept
sayin'."

"Helm wasn't the whole show. There was some others bein' hung that day and
when one of them dropped off his box, Boone says: 'There's one gone to
hell.' Pretty soon another went, and hung there wiggling, and six times he
went through all the motions of pullin' his six-shooter and firin' it. I
counted. 'Kick away, old fellow,' says Boone Helm, 'I'll be with you soon.'
Then it came his turn and he hollered: 'Hurrah for Jeff Davis; let her
rip!' That was how Boone Helm--"

The rest of the story was blotted from the mind of Vic Gregg by the thud of
a heavy heel on the veranda, and then the broad shoulders of Blondy Hansen
darkened the doorway, Blondy Hansen dressed for the dance, with the knot
of his black silk handkerchief turned to the front and above that the gleam
of his celluloid collar. It was dim in the saloon, compared with the
brightness of the outdoors, and perhaps Blondy did not see Vic. At any rate
he took his place at the other end of the bar. Three pictures tangled in
the mind of Gregg like three bodies in a whirlpool--Betty, Blondy, Pete
Glass. That strange clearness of perception increased and the whole affair