The boy came and stared down in awe at the long and motionless figure, the white face. “Him and Del, now——” But Nabours took him by the arm. The two went down the stairs once more into the office room. “Mister,” said Nabours to the gloomy occupant, handing over his key, “you’d better give me another room.” “What’s the matter with the one you’ve got?” demanded the landlord of the Drovers’ Cottage. “Somebody in it now,” replied Nabours, “and he’s dead. They told me that you-all got a couple of men to bury that man that got shot. Is that right? It was Mr. McCoyne told me that. Where is he?” Sounds of voices came through the open door. A group of men were talking excitedly in the moonlight. The landlord summoned in one of these—McCoyne, ubiquitous and sleepless. To him Nabours repeated his query. “Certainly, sir,” replied McCoyne. “I saw the two men carrying the coffin between them. I saw them bury him as plain as I ever saw anything in all my life! Of course, I wasn’t right out there with them. I been so busy——” “Well, he ain’t buried now,” said Jim Nabours. “Cal Dalhart’s up there, upstairs.” “Don’t that beat anything you ever heard!” exclaimed McCoyne. “It seems like everything goes wrong unless a man does it his own self, don’t it now?” “You come along with me,” said Nabours, moved by a sudden thought of his own. “You get two men—new ones. I believe them two folks that buried Cal Dalhart is both dead theirselfs. Bring a couple of shovels. Hurry up!” * * * * * A little group of men departed in the moonlight on a certain gruesome errand. It was Jim Nabours himself who began at the loose dirt of the mound at whose head there had been erected a little headboard: “C. Dalhart, of Texas. Died July 4, 1867. May he rest in peace.” “He couldn’t never rest in peace thisaway,” said Jim Nabours a half hour later. His shovel struck something hard. “Here, lend us a hand,” said he. “Sinker, get hold the other handle of this trunk. It’s heavy. Huh! It’s got a half million acres of Texas land into it!” “And we’ve got Sim Rudabaugh over in the livery stable,” he added after a time thoughtfully, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “This ain’t no bad day’s work a-tall. You people go on back and bring Cal over here and we’ll bury him right. A fair exchange ain’t no robbery.” CHAPTER XLVII THE COURT OF THE COMANCHES