It was the concomitant of defeat; he had felt it twice before
when he had been overwhelmed and mangled by the wolves of Wall Street.
He was almost nauseated. Not at sight of the dusty, bloody, shapeless
bundle that lay at the end of Pablo's riata, but with the realization
that, indirectly, he had been responsible for all of this.
Pablo's shrill, agonized denunciation had fallen upon deaf ears, once
the old majordomo had conveyed to Parker the information of Don Mike's
death.
"The rope--take it off!" he protested to the unconscious Pablo. "It's
cutting him in two. He looks like a link of sausage! Ugh! A Jap!
Horrible! I'm smeared--I can't explain--nobody in this country will
believe me--Pablo will kill me--"
He sat down on the bench under the catalpa tree, covered his face with
his hands and closed his eyes. When he ventured again to look up, he
observed that Pablo, in falling from his horse, had caught one huge
Mexican spur on the cantle of his saddle and was suspended by the heel,
grotesquely, like a dead fowl. The black mare, a trained roping horse,
stood patiently, her feet braced a little, still keeping a strain on
the riata.
Parker roused himself. With his pocket knife he cut the spur strap,
eased the majordomo to the ground, carried him to the bench and
stretched him out thereon. Then, grasping the mare by the bridle, he
led her around the adobe wall; he shuddered inwardly as he heard the
steady, slithering sound behind her.
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