cold, and for some reason he wanted some light. The black
circle of darkness weighed down upon him, closed in around him.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright and then froze in that position.
He had heard a step. It was behind him--no--on the side. Some
one was there. He forced his hand down to his gun, and the
touch of cold steel was another icy shock. Then he waited. But
all was silent--silent as only a wilderness arroyo can be, with
its low murmuring of wind in the mesquite. Had he heard a step?
He began to breathe again.

But what was the matter with the light of his camp-fire? It had
taken on a strange green luster and seemed to be waving off
into the outer shadows. Duane heard no step, saw no movement;
nevertheless, there was another present at that camp-fire
vigil. Duane saw him. He lay there in the middle of the green
brightness, prostrate, motionless, dying. Cal Bain! His
features were wonderfully distinct, clearer than any cameo,
more sharply outlined than those of any picture. It was a hard
face softening at the threshold of eternity. The red tan of
sun, the coarse signs of drunkenness, the ferocity and hate so
characteristic of Bain were no longer there. This face
represented a different Bain, showed all that was human in him
fading, fading as swiftly as it blanched white. The lips wanted
to speak, but had not the power. The eyes held an agony of
thought. They revealed what might have been possible for this
man if he lived--that he saw his mistake too late. Then they
rolled, set blankly, and closed in death.

That haunting visitation left Duane sitting there in a cold
sweat, a remorse gnawing at his vitals, realizing the curse