ning and watchfulness that had, so far,
carried their infernal schemes through with flying colors. And a second
look showed us that the scarlet coat belonged to a man who half-sat,
half-lay on the ground, his shoulders braced against the trunk of a
fallen tree. We got off our horses and went cautiously up to him.

"Be not afraid; it is only I!" Goodell raised his head with an effort
and greeted us mockingly. "I am, as you can see, hors de combat. What is
your pleasure, gentlemen?"

The weakness of his tone and the pallid features of him vouched for the
truth of his statement. Stepping nearer, we saw that the light-colored
shirt showing between the open lapels of his jacket was stained a
tell-tale crimson. The hand he held against his breast was dabbled and
streaked with the blood that oozed from beneath the pressing fingers;
the leaf-mold under him was saturated with it.

"Where is the rest of the bunch?" MacRae asked him evenly. "You seem to
have got a part of what is coming to you, but your skirts aren't clear,
for all that."

"You have a bone to pick with me, eh?" Goodell murmured. "Well, I don't
blame you. But don't adopt the role of inquisitor--because I'm as good
as dead, and dead men tell no tales. My mouth will be closed forever in
a little while--and I can die as easily with it unopened. But if you'll
get me a drink of water, and be decent about it, I'll unfold a tale
that's worth while. I assure you it will be to your interest to give me
a hearing."

Piegan turned and strode out of the timber. He unfastened the
coffee-pot from my saddle, and made for the coulee channel we had
crossed, in which a buffalo-wallow still held water from the recent
rain.

Goodell coughed, and a red, frothy stream came from his lips. It isn't
in the average man to be utterly callous to the suffering of another,
even if that other richly deserves his pain. Notwithstanding the
deviltry he and his confederates had perpetrated, I couldn't help
feeling sorry for Goodell--what little I'd seen of him had been likable
enough. I found it hard to look at him there and believe him guilty of
murder, robbery, and kindred depredations. He was beyond reach of
earthly justice, anyway; and one can't help forgiving much to a man who
faces death with a smile.

"Are you in any pain, Goodell?" I asked.

"None whatever," he answered weakly. "But I'm a goner, for all that. I
have a very neat knife-thrust in the back. Also a bullet somewhere in my