"What are they, Van?" he inquired, and turned back again to his scrutiny of the on-coming horseman.

"Sickness, an'--guns," replied the man addressed as Van, with another foolish laugh. "If it's Sid he ain't got anybody out on his ranch to be sick, 'cep' his two 'punchers. An' I don't guess he'd chase for them. Must be 'guns.'"

No one answered him. Everybody was too intent on the extraordinary phenomenon. The man was nearing the creek. In a few seconds he would be hidden from view, for the opposite bank lay far below them, cut off from sight by the height of the rising ground intervening on the hither side.

A moment later a distinct movement amongst the watchers, which had something almost of relief in it, told that this had happened. Minky turned to Jim Wright, who chanced to be nearest him.

"It's Sid," he declared definitely.

The old man nodded.

"An' I guess Van's right," he agreed.

"He'll be along up in a minute," said Joe Brand.

Minky remained where he was watching the point at which he expected to see the horseman reappear. This sudden apparition had fastened itself upon his general apprehension and become part of it. What was the news the man was bringing?

Some of the men moved off the veranda to meet the horseman when he came up, but the majority remained where they were. In spite of their interest, these people were rarely carried away by their feelings in a matter of this sort. Time would tell them all they wanted to know.

Perhaps a good deal more than they cared to hear. So they preferred to wait.

Their patience was quickly rewarded. In less than five minutes a bobbing head rose above the brow of the incline. Then came the man. He was still leaning forward to ease his panting horse, whose dilated nostrils and flattened ears told the onlookers of its desperate journey. The leg-weary beast floundered up the steep under quirt and spur--and, in a moment, stood tottering, gasping and steaming before the eager crowd.

Sid Morton almost fell out of the saddle. And as his feet came to the ground he reeled. But Minky caught him, and he steadied himself.

"I'm beat," the horseman cried desperately. "For mercy's sake hand me a horn o' whisky."

He flung himself down on the edge of the veranda, leaving his jaded beast to anyone's care. He was too far spent to think of anything or anybody but himself. Falling back against the post he closed his eyes while the silent crowd looked on stupidly.

Minky seemed to be the only one who fully grasped the situation. He pa.s.sed the foundered horse on to his "ch.o.r.eman," and then himself procured a stiff drink of rye whisky for the exhausted man. This he administered without a moment's delay, and the ranchman opened his eyes.

The next instant he sat up, and, in doing so, disclosed a large dark-red patch on the post he had leaned against. Minky saw the ominous stain.

"Wounded?" he inquired sharply.

"Some." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, "Yes, guess I'm done."

The ranchman spoke rapidly. For the moment at least his weakness seemed to have pa.s.sed, and the weariness to have gone out of his eyes and voice. He strained eagerly, his eyes alight and bloodshot. The whisky had given him momentary courage, momentary strength; the drawn lines of rapidly draining life had smoothed out of his young cheeks.

"Here, listen," he cried, almost fiercely. "I'm beat. I know. But--but I want to tell you things. You needn't to notice that hole in my back." He writhed painfully. "Guess they--they got my lung or--or somethin'. Y'see, it's the James gang. Some of 'em are"--a spasm of pain shot athwart his face as he hesitated--"'bout three miles back ther'--"

At this point a terrible fit of coughing interrupted him, and blood trickled into the corners of his mouth. Minky understood. He dispatched one of the bystanders for some brandy, while he knelt down to the man's support. At once the drooping body sagged heavily upon his arm; but when the paroxysm had pa.s.sed the weight lightened, and the dying man hurried on with his story, although his voice had lost more than half of its former ring.

"Ther' ain't much time," he said, with something like a gasp. "He's run off my stock, an' set my hay an' the corrals afire. He--he got us when we was roundin'--roundin' up a bunch o' steers. Y'see--y'see, we was in--in the saddle."

Again he paused. This time his breath came in gasps and deep-throated gurglings. He struggled on, however, stumbling and gasping with almost every second word.

"We put up a--sc.r.a.p--good. An'--an' both--my boys was--was dropped cold. After I--I emptied--my gun--I--I hit--the trail for here. Then I--got it good. Say--"

Once more he was interrupted by a fit of terrible coughing. And the moment it eased the storekeeper held the brandy, which one of the boys had brought, to his blood-flecked lips. The poor fellow's end was not far off. The onlookers knew it. Minky knew there was practically nothing to be done for him. All these men had witnessed the approach of death in this form too often before. A lung pierced by a bullet!

They could do nothing but look on curiously, helplessly and listen carefully to the story he was trying to tell.

The man struggled with himself for some moments. The strong young body was yielding reluctantly enough to the death-grip. And at last his words gasped haltingly upon the still air.

"Their plugs--wasn't--fresh. Mine--was. That give--me--the--legs--of 'em. But--they--rode--hard, an'--"

His voice died down to a whistling gasp and his eyes closed. He was sinking fast. Minky forced more brandy between his lips. And presently the drooping eyelids widened, and a momentary strength lifted the weakening body.

"They follered," he mumbled, "but--I--don't--know--how--many.

'Bout--three. Three--miles--back--I--I--lost--'em--"

His eyes were glazing and staring painfully. And as his last words hovered on his lips they were drowned by the gurgling and rattling in his throat. Suddenly a shudder pa.s.sed through his frame. He started, his eyes staring wildly.

"I'm--done!" he gasped. His arms shot up convulsively, his legs flung out. And then all his weight dropped back on to the storekeeper's supporting arm. The next moment his body seemed to heave as with a deep, restful sigh, and his head lolled helplessly forward. He was dead.

CHAPTER XXIII

A BATH AND--

Scipio started and looked up as a joyous greeting from the children outside warned him of the approach of a visitor. He was rather glad of the interruption, too. He found the Bible offered him such an enormous field of research. It was worse than enormous; it was overwhelming.

The Bible was really more than he could study in the few minutes he had allowed himself. As yet he had not found even one single mention of the few subjects he still retained a vague recollection of.

As he glanced at the doorway it was darkened by a familiar figure.

Sunny Oak, as ragged, disreputable and unclean as usual, smiled himself into the room.

"Howdy, Zip?" he greeted genially. "Guessed I'd git around, seem' it was Sunday. Y'see, folks don't work any Sunday. I'd sure say it's a real blessin' folks is 'lowed to rest one day in seven. Talkin' o'

work, I heerd tell you've took a pardner to your claim. Wild Bill's smart. He ain't bluffed you any?"

The loafer seated himself in the other chair with an air of utter weariness. He might just have finished a spell of the most arduous labor, instead of having merely strolled across the dumps. Scipio smiled faintly.

"He hasn't bluffed me any," he said gently. "Seems to me he wouldn't bluff me. Yes, he's in on ha'f my claim. Y'see, he thinks ther's gold in sight, an'--an' I know ther' ain't. That's what's troubling me. I kind of feel mean some."

Sunny yawned luxuriously.

"Don't you worry any," he said easily. "Bill's mighty wide. If he's come in on your claim he's--needin' to bad. Say--"

He broke off and turned alertly to the door. A sound of voices reached them, and a moment later Sandy Joyce and Toby stood grinning in the doorway.

"Gee!" cried Sunny. "Gettin' quite a party."

"I'm real pleased you folks come along," Scipio declared warmly. He stood up and looked round uncertainly. "Say," he went on, his pale face flushing a little ruefully, "come right in, boys. I don't see jest where you're goin' to sit. Maybe the table's good an' strong.

This chair'll do for one."

But Toby would have none of it.

"Set you down, Zip," he cried. "I got this doorway. Guess the table'll fit Sandy. He's kind o' high in his notions. I jest see Bill comin'