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 with him on his
shoulders, and staggered off with him toward the creek. There he found
a path, a narrow foot trail, and not once did he stop with his burden
until he came into a little clearing, out of which Cassidy had seen the
smoke rising. In this clearing was a cabin, and from the cabin came an
old man to meet him--an old man and a girl.

At first something shot up into Peter's throat, for he thought it was
Nada who came behind the grizzled and white-headed man. There was the
same lithe slimness in her body, the same brown glint in her hair, and
the same--but he saw then that it was not Nada. She was older. She was
a bit taller. And her face was white when she saw the bleeding burden on
Jolly Roger's back.

"I shot him," panted McKay. "God knows I didn't mean to! I'm afraid--"

He did not finish giving voice to the fear that Cassidy