jeered. "Told you I'd
make you sweat blood, Mister Yeager. Good enough. You'll see me in a box
right off the stage to-morrow morning when the execution set is pulled
off. Adios, my friend!"

The cowpuncher was thrust into a one-room, flat-roofed adobe hut. The
door was locked and a guard set outside. The prison had for furniture a
three-legged stool and a rough, home-made table. In one corner lay a
couple of blankets upon some straw to serve for a bed. The walls of the
house, probably a hundred years old at least, were of plain, unplastered
adobe. The fireplace was large, but one glance up the narrow chimney
proved the futility of any hope of escape in that direction.

He was caught, like a rat in a trap. Yet somehow he did not feel as if
it could be true that he was to be taken out at daybreak and shot. It
must be some ridiculous joke Fate was playing on him. Something would
turn up yet to save him.

But as the hours wore away the grim reality of his position came nearer
home to him. He had only a few hours left. From his pocket he took a
notebook and a pencil. It was possible that Pasquale would let him send
a letter through to Threewit if it gave some natural explanation of his
death, one that would relieve him of any responsibility. Steve tore out
a page and wrote, standing under the little shaft of moonlight that
poured through the small barred window:--

Fifteen minutes ago [so he wrote] I accidentally shot myself while
target-practicing here in camp. They say I won't live more than a
few hours. By the courtesy of General Pasquale I am getting a
letter through to you, which is to be sent after my death. Give
bearer ten dollars in gold.

Say good-bye for me to Frank, Daisy, and the rest. _Bust up that
marriage if you can_.

Adios, my friend.
STEVE YEAGER.

He was searching in his pocket for an envelope when there came a sound
that held him rigid. Some one was very carefully unlocking the door of
his prison from the outside. Stealthily he drew back into the deep
shadow at the farther end of the room, picking up noiselessly by one leg
the stool by the table. It was possible that some one had been sent to
murder him.

The grinding of the key ceased. Slowly the door opened inch by inch. A
man's head was thrust through the opening. After a long time of silence
a figure followed the head and the door was closed agai