they had killed
him.

But halfway down the hill, one of the men, watching the rock near
Sanderson as he walked, saw the muzzle of Sanderson's rifle projecting
from between the two rocks.

For the second time since the appearance of Sanderson on the scene the
man discharged his rifle from the hip, and for the second time he
missed the target.

Sanderson, however, did not miss. His rifle went off, and the man fell
without a sound. The other, paralyzed from the shock, stood for an
instant, irresolute, then, seeming to discover from where Sanderson's
bullet had come, he raised his rifle.

Sanderson's weapon crashed again. The second man shuddered, spun
violently around, and pitched headlong down the slope.

Sanderson came from behind the rock, grinning mirthlessly. He knew
where his bullets had gone, and he took no precautions when he emerged
from his hiding place and approached the men.

"That's all, for you, I reckon," he said.

Leaving them, he went to the top of the hill and bent over the other
man. A bullet fairly in the center of the man's forehead told
eloquently of the manner of his death.

The man's face was not of so villainous a cast as the others. There
were marks of a past refinement on it; as there were also lines of
dissipation.

"I reckon this guy was all wool an' a yard wide, in his time," said
Sanderson; "but from the looks of him he was tryin' to live it down.
Now, we'll see what them other guys was goin' through his clothes for."

Sanderson knelt beside the man. From an inner pocket of the latter's
coat he drew a letter--faded and soiled, as though it had been read
much. There was another letter--a more recent one, undoubtedly, for
the paper was in much better condition.

Sanderson looked at both envelopes, and finally selected the most
soiled one. He hesitated an instant, and then withdrew the contents
and read:

MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,

Tucson, Arizona.

DEAR BROTHER WILL: The last time I heard from you, you were in Tucson.
That was ten years ago, and it seems an awful long time. I suppose it
is too much to hope that you are still there, but it is that hope which
is making me write this letter.

Will, father is dead. He died yesterday, right after I got here. He
asked for you. Do you know what that means? It means he wanted you to
come back, Will. Poor father, he didn't really mean to be obstinate,
you know.

I shall not write any more, for I am not sure that you