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"How many of them are there?" he asked of the lad, in a whisper.

"About six, I think. I'm sorry I shot at you."

"What's the row?"

"They followed us out of Gimlet Butte. They've been drinking.

Isn't that some one climbing up the side of the ridge?"

"I believe it is. Let me have your rifle, kid."

"What for?" The youngster took careful aim, and fired.

A scream from the sagebrush--just one, and then no more.

"Bully for you', Arlie," the old man said.

None of them spoke for some minutes, then Fraser heard a sob--a

stifled one, but unmistakable none the less.

"Don't be afraid, kid. We'll stand 'em off," the Texan

encouraged.

"I ain't afraid, but I--I----Oh, God, I've killed a man."

The Texan stared at him, where he lay in the heavy shadows,

shaken with his remorse. "Holy smoke! Wasn't he aiming to kill

you? He likely isn't dead, anyhow. You got real troubles to worry

about, without making up any."