ho for months
had masqueraded in the camp as a woman. Now, that masquerade disclosed
and the dreadful mystery of the past revealed, the nameless boy, fair in
spite of his crimes and his hideous wounds, lay dying in the dust and
gravel of the road.

Jim Woppit and his posse, a mile away, had heard the pistol-shot. It
seemed but a moment ere they swept down the road to the scene of the
tragedy; they came with the swiftness of the wind. Jim Woppit galloped
ahead, his swarthy face the picture of terror.

"Who is it--who 's killed--who 's hurt?" he asked.

Nobody made answer, and that meant everything to Jim. He leapt from his
horse, crept to the dying boy's side and took the bruised head into his
lap. The yellowish hair had fallen down about the shoulders; Jim stroked
it and spoke to the white face, repeating "Willie, Willie, Willie," over
and over again.

The presence and the voice of that evil brother, whom he had so bravely
served, seemed to arrest the offices of Death. The boy came slowly to,
opened his eyes and saw Jim Woppit there. There was pathos, not
reproach, in the dying eyes.

"It 's all up, Jim," said the boy, faintly, "I did the best I could."

All that Jim Woppit could answer was "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and
over again.

"This was to have been the last and we were going away to be decent
folks," this was what the boy went on to say; "I wish it could have been
so, for I have wanted to live ever since--ever since I knew her."

Mary Lackington gave a great moan. She stood a way off, but she heard
these words and they revealed much--so very much to her--more, perhaps,
than you and I can guess.

He did not speak her name. The boy seemed not to know that she was
there. He said no other word, but with Jim Woppit bending over him and
wailing that piteous "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and over again, the
boy closed his eyes and was dead.

Then they all looked upon Jim Woppit, but no one spoke. If words were to
be said, it was Jim Woppit's place to say them, and that dreadful silence
seemed to cry: "Speak out, Jim Woppit, for your last hour has come!"

Jim Woppit was no coward. He stood erect before them all and plucked
from his breast the star of his office and cast away from him the weapon
he had worn. He was magnificent in that last, evil hour!

"Men," said he. "I speak for him an' not for myself. Ez God is my
judge, that boy wuz not to blame. I made him do it all--the lyin', the