"Who is he, Mr. Jones?"

"He is registered as Andrew Paul, from New York. That's all I know.
The other man put his name down as Albert Roon. He seemed to be the
boss and this man a sort of servant, far as I could make out. They
never talked much and seldom came downstairs. They had their meals in
their room. Bacon served them. Where is Bacon? Where the hell--oh, the
mattress. Now, we'll lift him up gentle-like while you fellers slip it
under him. Easy now. Brace up, my lad, we--we won't hurt you. Lordy!
Lordy! I'm sorry--Gosh! I thought he was gone!" He wiped his brow with
a shaking hand.

"There is nothing we can do," said Barnes, "except try to stanch the
flow of blood. He is bleeding inwardly, I'm afraid. It's a clean
wound, Mr. Jones. Like a rifle shot, I should say."

"That's just what it is," said one of the men, a tall woodsman. "The
feller who did it was a dead shot, you c'n bet on that. He got t'
other man square through the heart."

"Lordy, but this will raise a rumpus," groaned the landlord. "We'll
have detectives an'--"

"I guess they got what was comin' to 'em," said another of the men.

"What's that? Why, they was ridin' peaceful as could be to Spanish
Falls. What do you mean by sayin' that, Jim Conley? But wait a minute!
How does it happen that they were up near your dad's house? That
certainly ain't on the road to Span--"