fle range.

One of the outlaws stopped, took deliberate aim with the stolen
Winchester and fired, meaning to kill; but he miscalculated the range a
bit and Thurston crumpled down with a bullet in his thigh. The revolver
was empty now and fell smoking at his feet. So he lay and cursed
impotently while he watched the marauders ride out of sight up the
valley.

When the rank timber-growth hid their flying figures he crawled over to
where Bob lay and tried to lift him.

"Art you hurt?" was the idiotic question he asked.

Bob opened his eyes and waited a breath, as if to steady his thought.
"Did I get one, Bud?"

"I'm afraid not," Thurston confessed, and immediately after wished that
he had lied and said yes. "Are you hurt?" he repeated senselessly.

"Who, me?" Bob's eyes wavered in their directness. "Don't yuh bother
none about me," evasively.

"But you've got to tell me. You--they--" He choked over the words.

"Well--I guess they got me, all right. But don't let that worry yuh; it
don't me." He tried to speak carelessly and convincingly, but it was
a miserable failure. He did not want to die, did Bob, however much he
might try to hide the fact.

Thurston was not in the least imposed upon. He turned away his head,
pretending to look after the outlaws, and set his teeth together tight.
He did not want to act a fool. All at once he grew dizzy and sick, and
lay down heavily till the faintness passed.

Bob tried to lift himself to his elbow; failing that, he put out a hand
and laid it on Thurston's shoulder. "Did they--get you--too?" he queried
anxiously.

"The damn coyotes!"

"It's nothing; just a leg put out of business," Thurston hurried to
assure him. "Where are you hurt, Bob?"

"Aw, I ain't any X-ray," Bob retorted weakly but gamely. "Somewheres
inside uh me. It went in my side but the Lord knows where it wound
up. It hurts, like the devil." He lay quiet a minute. "I wish--do yuh
feel--like finishing--that song, Bud?"

Thurston gulped down a lump that was making his throat ache. When he
answered, his voice was very gentle:

"I'll try a verse, old man."

"The last one--we'd just come to the last. It's most like church. I--I
never went--much on religion, Bud; but when a fellow's--going out over
the Big Divide."

"You're not!" Thurston contradicted fiercely, as if that could make it
different. He thought he could not bear those jerky sentences.

"All right--Bud. We won't fight over it. Go ahead. The la