. Glancing upward
he saw that a rope ran from his neck to the rock, over it and then to
the pommel of a saddle, and his face twitched as its meaning sifted
through his mind. Then he thought of the time The Orphan had held him
up in the defile--how unlike these men the outlaw was! If he would only
come now--what joy there would be in the flashing of his gun; what ecstasy
in the confusion, panic, rout that he would cause. He was dazed and
the throbbing, heavy, monotonous pain dulled him still more. He seemed
to be apart from his surroundings, to be an onlooker and not an actor
in the game. He wondered if that whip was his: yes, it must be . . .
certainly it was. He ought to know his own whip . . . of course it was
his. He regarded Tex curiously . . . there had been Indians, or was it
some other time? What was Tex doing there on the ground? He struggled to
think clearly, and then he knew. But the deadening pain was merciful
to him, it made him apathetic. Was he going to die? Perhaps, but what
of it? He didn't care, for then that pain wouldn't beat through him. Tex
looked funny. . . . He closed his eyes wearily and seemed to be far
away. He _was_ far away, and, oh, so tired!

Tex finally managed to gain his feet and straighten up and revealed his
face, bloody and swollen and black from the blow. His words came with a
hesitation which suggested pain, and they were mumbled between split and
swollen lips.

"Now, d----n yu!" he cried, brokenly, staggering to the helpless man
before him. "Now mebby yu'll talk! Why did yu help Th' Orphant? If yu
lie yu'll swing!"

Bill swayed and his eyes opened, and after an interval he slowly and
wearily made reply, for his senses had returned again.

"He saved my life," he said, "and I'll help--anybody for that."

"Oh, he did, did he?" jeered Tex. "An' why? That ain't his way, helpin'
strangers at his own risk. Why?"

"There was women--in the coach."

"Oh, there was, hey?" ironically remarked Tex. "Mebby he wanted 'em all
to himself, eh?"

"He's a white man, not a cur."

"He's a cub of th' devil, that's what he is!" Tex cried. "He ain't no
orphant, not by a d----d sight--th' devil's his father, an' all hell is
his mother. Now, I want an answer to this one, and I want it quick: no lie
goes. Why don't th' sheriff get busy an' camp on his trail? What interest
has th' sheriff an' Th' Orphant in each other? Come on, out with it!"

"I don't know," replied Bill, wishing that the sheriff w