He tried to strike Good Indian down where he stood, and when his
blows were parried he stopped, swayed a minute in drunken
uncertainty, and then make one of his catlike motions, pulled a
gun, and fired without really taking aim.
Another gun spoke then, and Baumberger collapsed in the sand, a
quivering heap of gross human flesh. Good Indian stood and
looked down at him fixedly while the smoke floated away from the
muzzle of his own gun. He heard Evadna screaming hysterically at
the gate, and looked over there inquiringly. Phoebe was running
toward him, and the boys--Wally and Gene and Jack, from the
blacksmith shop. At the corner of the stable Miss Georgie was
sliding from her saddle, her riding whip clenched tightly in her
hand as she hurried to him. Peaceful stood beside the team, with
the lines still in his hand.
It was Miss Georgie's words which reached him clearly.
"You just HAD to do it, Grant. I saw the whole thing. You HAD
to."
"Oh, Grant--GRANT! What have you done? What have you done?"
That was Phoebe Hart, saying the same thing over and over with a
queer, moaning inflection in her voice.
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