CHAPTER XV. Oleson “Say, ain't that Andy and Mig following along behind?” Cal asked after a minute of watching the approach. “Sure, it is. Now what--” “They're drivin' 'em, by cripes!” Big Medicine, under the stress of the moment, returned to his usual bellowing tone. “Who's that tall, lanky feller in the lead? I don't call to mind ever seem him before. Them four herders I'd know a mile off.” “That?” Weary shaded his eyes with his hat-brim, against the slant rays of the westering sun. “That's Oleson, Dunk's partner.” “His mother'd be a-weepin',” Big Medicine observed bodefully, “if she knowed what was due to happen to her son right away quick. Must be him that done the shootin'.” They came on steadily, the four herders and Oleson walking reluctantly ahead, with Andy Green and the Native Son riding relentlessly in the rear, their guns held unwaveringly in a line with the backs of their captives. Andy was carrying a rifle, evidently taken from one of the men--Oleson, they judged for the guilty one. Half the distance was covered when Andy was seen to turn his head and speak briefly with the Native Son, after which he lunged past the captives and galloped up to the waiting group. His quick eye sought first the face of Happy Jack in anxious questioning; then, miserably, he searched the faces of his friends. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed mechanically, dismounted and bent over the figure on the ground. For a long minute he knelt there; he laid his ear close to Happy Jack's mouth, took off his glove and laid his hand over Happy's heart; reached up, twitched off his neckerchief, shook out the creases and spread it reverently over Happy Jack's face. He stood up then and spoke slowly, his eyes fixed upon the stumbling approach of the captives. “Pink told us Happy had been shot, so we rode around and come up behind 'em. It was a cinch. And--say, boys, we've got the Dots in a pocket. They've got to eat outa our hands, now. So don't think about--our own feelings, or about--” he stopped abruptly and let a downward glance finish the sentence. “We've got to keep our own hands clean, and--now don't let your fingers get the itch, Bud!” This, because of certain manifestations of a murderous intent on the part of Big Medicine. “Oh, it's all right to talk, if yuh feel like talking,” Big Medicine retorted savagely. “I don't.” He made a catlike spring at the foremost man, who happened to be Oleson, and got a merciless grip with his fingers on his throat, snarling like a predatory animal over its kill. From behind, Andy, with Weary to help, pulled him off. “I didn't mean to--to kill anybody,” gasped Oleson, pasty white. “I heard a lot of shooting, and so I ran up the hill--and the herders came running toward me, and I thought I was defending my property and men. I had a right to defend--”