concluded Stevens, with a laugh.

All that night Duane, gloomy and thoughtful, attentive to the
wounded outlaw, walked the trail and never halted till
daybreak. He was tired then and very hungry. Stevens seemed in
bad shape, although he was still spirited and cheerful. Duane
made camp. The outlaw refused food, but asked for both whisky
and water. Then he stretched out.

"Buck, will you take off my boots?" he asked, with a faint
smile on his pallid face.

Duane removed them, wondering if the outlaw had the thought
that he did not want to die with his boots on. Stevens seemed
to read his mind.

"Buck, my old daddy used to say thet I was born to be hanged.
But I wasn't--an' dyin' with your boots on is the next wust way
to croak."

"You've a chance to-to get over this," said Duane.

"Shore. But I want to be correct about the boots--an' say,
pard, if I do go over, jest you remember thet I was
appreciatin' of your kindness."

Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.

Duane could not find water for the horses, but there was an
abundance of dew-wet grass upon which he hobbled them. After