The images, the scenes called up by Colter's words, were as true as the gloom of the wild gulch and the loneliness of the night solitude--as true as the strange fact that she lay passive in the arm of a rustler.
"Wall, after a while I woke up," went on Colter, clearing his throat.
"It was gray dawn.

All was as still as death....

An' somethin' shore was wrong.

Wells an' Slater had got to drinkin' again an' now laid daid drunk or asleep.

Anyways, when I kicked them they never moved.
Then I heard a moan.