s that was to be the black, damning seal
at the end of his atrocious life's record.

Thorn looked up from his study; he shook his head decisively.

"I ain't a-goin' to go back over there in your country and give you a
chance at me. If you git me, you'll have to git me here. I ain't
a-goin' to sling a gun down on nobody for the money that's in it, I
tell you. I'm through; I'm out of the game; my craw's full. It's a bad
sign when a man wastes a bullet on a hired hand, takin' him for the
boss, and I ain't a-goin' to run no more resks on that feller. When my
day for glory comes I'll step out on the gallers and say m' piece, and
they'll be some big fellers in this country huntin' the tall grass
about that time, I guess."

Chadron had taken up his quirt from the little round table where the
hotel register lay. He turned now toward the outer door, as if in
earnest about going his way and leaving Mark Thorn to follow his own
path, no matter to what consequences it might lead.

"If you're square enough to settle up with me for this job," said
Thorn, "and pay me five hundred for what I've done, I'll leave your
name out when I come to make that little speech."

Chadron turned on him with a sneer. "You seem to have your hangin' all
cut and dried, but you'll never go ten miles outside of this
reservation if you don't turn around and put that job through. You'll
never hang--you ain't cut out in the hangin' style."

"I tell you I will!" protested Thorn hotly. "I can see it in the
cards."

"Well, you'd better shuffle 'em ag'in."

"I know what kind of a day it's goin' to be, and I know just adzackly
how I'll look when I hold up m' hands for them fellers to keep still.
Shucks! you can't tell me; I've seen that day a thousand times. It'll
be early in the mornin', and the sun bright--"

The door leading to the dining-room opened, and Thorn left his
description of that great and final day in his career hanging like a
broken bridge. He turned to see who it was, squinting his old eyes up
sharply, and in watching the stranger he failed to see the whiteness
that came over Chadron's face like a rushing cloud.

"Grab your gun!" Chadron whispered.

"Just let it stay where it is, Thorn," advised the stranger, his quick
hand on his own weapon before Thorn could grasp what it was all about,
believing, as he did, in the safety of the reservation's neutral
ground. "Macdonald is my name; I've been looking for you." The
stranger came on as