Either of them
would have been fatal, and about each the flesh was discolored where
the hilt of the knife or the fist of the striker had driven home
the blade.
They stood back and made no hopeless effort to save him. It was
uncanny that Black Morgan Gandil, after all of his battles, should die
without a struggle in this way. And it had been no cowardly attack
from the rear. Both wounds were in the front. A hope came to them when
his color increased at one time, but it was for only a moment; it went
out again as if someone were erasing paint from his cheeks.
But just as they were about to turn away his body stirred with a
slight convulsion, the eyes opened wide, and he strove to speak. A red
froth came on his lips. He made another desperate effort, and twisting
himself onto one elbow pointed a rigid arm at Pierre. He gasped:
"McGurk--God!" and dropped. He was dead before his head touched
the blanket.
It was Jacqueline who closed the staring eyes, for the two men were
frozen where they stood. They had heard the story of Patterson and
Branch and Mansie in one word from the lips of the dying man.
Pages:
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199