. . . Who did it?—A ranger?”

“No. Some man in his shirt sleeves. I killed him, Simm!”

“That’s good. . . . I saw Arkansas fall—shot plumb center. . . . What happened to Heston?”

“He rode off hard hit.”

“And the rest—of the gang?”

“They turned back. I saw one saddle empty. They must have run into a hail of lead.”

“Ahuh. . . . Look, boy. Any riders in sight?”

Wade leaped up to peer down the road. A group of eight or ten horsemen had turned the bend.

“Yes! Rangers!” exclaimed Wade, stridently. “Coming slow. Tracking us. Two miles or more back.”

Bell opened his coat with his free hand. The other still clutched his shirt. Blood oozed out between his fingers. At the sight Wade uttered a loud cry and sank to his knees beside his friend. That bloody shirt, that clenched hand, meant only death. Wade could have shrieked in his misery.