"It was a squarer death than he deserved.

He was a game little cock." Then he thought of Moylan, wondering why the man did not move, or speak.

That was not like Moylan.

He bent forward, half afraid in the stillness, endeavoring to discover space on the floor for both his feet.

He could perceive now a distant star showing clear through the ragged opening jabbed in the back of the coach, but no outline of the sutler's burly shoulders.
"Moylan!" he called, hardly above a whisper.