orward revolver in hand, glancing
curiously at the dead Indian as he passed. A riata hung to the pommel
of a saddle, and he paused to shake it loose, uncoiling the thin rope,
but with watchful eyes constantly on his prisoner. He felt no fear of
Dupont, now that he knew the fellow to be unarmed, and the wounded
Indian had vanished over the ridge. Yet Dupont was a powerful man, and
desperate enough to accept any chance. Something in the sullen,
glowering face confronting him awoke the Sergeant to caution. He
seemed to sense the plan of the other, and stopped suddenly, slipping
the rope through his fingers.

He swung the coil about his head, measuring the distance, every faculty
concentrated on the toss. He had forgotten Hughes lying in the snow
behind; he neither saw nor heard the fellow scramble weakly to his
knees, revolver outstretched in a half-frozen hand. And Hughes, his
eyes already glazing in death, saw only the two figures. In that
moment hate triumphed over cowardice; he could not distinguish which
was Dupont, which Hamlin. In the madness of despair he cared
little--only he would kill some one before he died. His weapon wavered
frantically as he sought to aim, the man holding himself up by one
hand. Dupont, facing that way, saw this apparition, and leaped aside,
stumbling over the dead pony. Hughes' weapon belched, and Hamlin, the
lasso whirling above him in the air, pitched forward, and came crashing
down into the snow.

It was all the work of an instant, a wild, confused bit, so rapidly
enacted as to seem unreal even to the participants. Hamlin lay
motionless, barely conscious of living, yet unable to stir a muscle.
Hughes, screaming out one oath, sank back into a heap, his frozen
fingers still gripping his smoking weapon. Then Dupont rose cautiously
to his knees, peering forth across the dead body of the pony. The man
was unnerved, unable at first to comprehend what had occurred. He was
saved as by a miracle, and his great form shook from head to foot.
Then, as his eyes rested on the outstretched body of the Sergeant, hate
conquered every other feeling; he staggered to his feet, picked up the
gun lying in the snow, walked across, and brutally kicked the prostrate
form. There was no response, no movement.

"All I wish is that I 'd been the one to kill yer," he growled
savagely, grinning down. "Hell of a good shot, though I reckon the
blame fool meant it for me." He threw the rifle forward