urt?"

As Presley stood by the door of the house after bringing in a pail of
water for the doctor, he was aware of a party of men who had struck
off from the road on the other side of the irrigating ditch and were
advancing cautiously into the field of wheat. He wondered what it meant
and Cutter, coming up at that moment, Presley asked him if he knew.

"It's Delaney," said Cutter. "It seems that when he was shot he crawled
off into the wheat. They are looking for him there."

Presley had forgotten all about the buster and had only a vague
recollection of seeing him slide from his horse at the beginning of the
fight. Anxious to know what had become of him, he hurried up and joined
the party of searchers.

"We better look out," said one of the young men, "how we go fooling
around in here. If he's alive yet he's just as liable as not to think
we're after him and take a shot at us."

"I guess there ain't much fight left in him," another answered. "Look at
the wheat here."

"Lord! He's bled like a stuck pig."

"Here's his hat," abruptly exclaimed the leader of the party. "He can't
be far off. Let's call him."

They called repeatedly without getting any answer, then proceeded
cautiously. All at once the men in advance stopped so suddenly that
those following carromed against them. There was an outburst of
exclamation.

"Here he is!"

"Good Lord! Sure, that's him."

"Poor fellow, poor fellow."

The cow-puncher lay on his back, deep in the wheat, his knees drawn up,
his eyes wide open, his lips brown. Rigidly gripped in one hand was his
empty revolver.

The men, farm hands from the neighbouring ranches, young fellows from
Guadalajara, drew back in instinctive repulsion. One at length ventured
near, peering down into the face.

"Is he dead?" inquired those in the rear.

"I don't know."

"Well, put your hand on his heart." "No! I--I don't want to."

"What you afraid of?"

"Well, I just don't want to touch him, that's all. It's bad luck. YOU
feel his heart."

"You can't always tell by that."

"How can you tell, then? Pshaw, you fellows make me sick. Here, let me
get there. I'll do it."

There was a long pause, as the other bent down and laid his hand on the
cow-puncher's breast.

"Well?"

"I can't tell. Sometimes I think I feel it beat and sometimes I don't. I
never saw a dead man before."

"Well, you can't tell by the heart."

"What's the good of talking so blame much. Dead or not, let's carry