That seemed to satisfy the outlaw. Presently he tried to lift
his head, but had not the strength. A strange shade was
creeping across the bronzed rough face.

"My feet are pretty heavy. Shore you got my boots off?"

Duane held them up, but was not certain that Stevens could see
them. The outlaw closed his eyes again and muttered
incoherently. Then he fell asleep. Duane believed that sleep
was final. The day passed, with Duane watching and waiting.
Toward sundown Stevens awoke, and his eyes seemed clearer.
Duane went to get some fresh water, thinking his comrade would
surely want some. When he returned Stevens made no sign that he
wanted anything. There was something bright about him, and
suddenly Duane realized what it meant.

"Pard, you--stuck--to me!" the outlaw whispered.

Duane caught a hint of gladness in the voice; he traced a faint
surprise in the haggard face. Stevens seemed like a little
child.

To Duane the moment was sad, elemental, big, with a burden of
mystery he could not understand.

Duane buried him in a shallow arroyo and heaped up a pile of
stones to mark the grave. That done, he saddled his comrade's
horse, hung the weapons over the pommel; and, mounting his own
steed, he rode down the trail in the gathering twilight.