But he drove them back,
threatening them with his big fists and cockney oaths, and they
dropped down and watched him as the wagon, rocking and swaying and
lurching, was drawn away from them by galloping horses.
At a sharp word from Conniston two of the men brought the broken
barrel which had contained whisky to where the discarded revolvers lay
glinting in the early light and tossed them into it. And then Brayley
came.
"What's up, Con?" he asked, swinging down from his panting horse, his
keen eyes taking in the fading excitement, the general idleness. And
then, as he stooped forward and looked into the barrel: "Good heavens!
What _is_ the matter?"
In a few words Conniston told him. For a moment Brayley said nothing,
shaking his head and eying him curiously.
"You sure got your nerve, Con," he said, simply, after a minute.
Conniston laughed shakily. Again a sinking nausea made him faint and
dizzy. He could remember now the way the nose of his revolver had sunk
into the Chinaman's stomach, could see again all of the horror of the
thing which he had done.
"I'm sick, Brayley," he said, unsteadily. "The thing will drive me
mad. I--I had to kill a man--and I can't forget how he looked!"
"How you managed to stop 'em jest killing _one_ gets me. Where is he?"
Conniston nodded to the wagon and turned away shuddering. The Half
Moon foreman strode over to the wagon and looked closely at the limp
body.
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