then
crumpled down, so that the weight of him fell upon Peter.

For many seconds after that Jolly Roger stood with his gun in his hand,
not a muscle of his body moving, and with something like stupor in his
staring eyes. Peter struggled out from under Cassidy, and looked
inquisitively from his master to the man who lay sprawled out like a
great spider upon the sand. It was then that life seemed to come back
into Jolly Roger's body. His gun fell, as if it was the last thing in
the world to count for anything now, and with a choking cry he ran to
Cassidy and dropped upon his knees beside him.

"Cassidy--Cassidy--" he cried. "Good God, I didn't mean to do it!
Cassidy, old pal--"

The agony in his voice stilled the growl in Peter's throat. McKay saw
nothing for a space, as he raised Cassidy's head and shoulders, and
brushed back the mop of red hair. Everything was a blur before his
eyes. He had killed Cassidy. He knew it. He had shot to kill, and not
once in a hundred times did he miss his mark. At last he was what the
law wanted him to be--a murderer. And his victim was Cassidy--the man
who had played him fairly and squarely from beginning to end, the man
who had never taken a mean advantage of him, and who had died there in
the white sand because he had not shot to kill. With sobbing breath he
cried out his grief, and then, looking down, he saw the miracle in
Cassidy's face. The Irishman's eyes were wide open, and there was pain,
and also a grin, about his mouth.

"I'm glad you're sorry," he said. "I'd hate to have a bad opinion of
you, McKay. But--you're a rotten shot!"

His body sagged heavily, and the grin slowly left his lips, and a moan
came from between them. He struggled and spoke.

"It may be--you'll want help, McKay. If you do--there's a cabin half a
mile up the creek. Saw the smoke--heard axe--I don't blame you. You're
a good sport--pretty quick--but--rotten shot! Oh,
Lord--such--rotten--shot--"

And he tried vainly to grin up into Jolly Roger's face as he became a
lifeless weight in the other's arms.

Jolly Roger was sobbing. He was sobbing, in a strange, hard
man-fashion, as he tore open Cassidy's shirt and saw the red wound that
went clean through Cassidy's right breast just under the shoulder. And
Peter still heard that strange sound coming from his lips, a moaning as
if for breath, as his master ran and brought up water, and worked over
the fallen man. And then he got under Cassidy, and rose up wi