At
the sound of his approach a woman came running to the door, shrieking
for assistance in a Mexican gibberish. He ran hastily to the house, his
hand on his pistol. The woman, without stopping her chatter, huddled in
the doorway, pointing to the dim corner opposite. Frawley, following her
glance, saw the figure of a man stretched on a hasty bed of leaves. He
took a few quick steps and recognized Greenfield.
At the same moment the bundle shot to a sitting position, with a cry:
"Who's that?"
Frawley, with a quick motion, covered him with his revolver, crying:
"Hands up. It's me, Bucky, and I've got you now!"
"Frawley!"
"That's it, Bucky--Hands up!"
Greenfield, without obeying, stared at him wildly.
"God, it is Frawley!" he cried, and fell back in a heap.
Inspector Frawley, advancing a step, repeated his command with no
uncertain ring:
"Hands up! Quick!"
On the bed the distorted body contracted suddenly into a ball.
"Easy, Bub," Greenfield said between his teeth. "Easy; don't get
excited. I'm dying.
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