In the back door, with one arm in a sling, an' a gun that still smokes, ca'm an' onmoved like Injuns allers is, stands Bloojacket.
"'My hand is forced,' he says, as he passes me his gun; 'it's him or me! One of us wore the death-mark an' had to go.' "'Couldn't you-all have gone with Crook ag'in ?' I says.

'Which you don't have to infest this yere stretch of country.

Thar's no hobbles or sidelines on you; none whatever!' "Bloojacket makes no reply, an' his copper face gets expressionless an' inscrootable.

I can see through, however; an' it's the hobbles of that Caldwell beauty's innocence that's holdin' him.
"Bloojacket walks over to where Hardrobe's layin' dead an' straightens him round--laigs an' arms--an' places his big white cow hat over his face.

Thar's no more sign of feelin', whether love or hate, in the eyes of Bloojacket while he performs these ceremonies than if Hardrobe's a roll of blankets.