In a moment the surgeon was at his side. The confusion was heightened
by the trampling of hoofs, and the voice of the blacksmith bidding them
flee for their lives before the coming storm. A moment more and the
ground was cleared, and the surgeon, looking up, beheld only the white
face of Culpepper bending over him.

"Can you save him?"

"I cannot say. Hold up his head a moment, while I run to the buggy."

Culpepper passed his arm tenderly around the neck of the insensible man.
Presently the surgeon returned with some stimulants.

"There, that will do, Mr. Starbottle, thank you. Now my advice is to get
away from here while you can. I'll look after Folinsbee. Do you hear?"

Culpepper's arm was still round the neck of his late foe, but his head
had drooped and fallen on the wounded man's shoulder. The surgeon looked
down, and, catching sight of his face, stooped and lifted him gently
in his arms. He opened his coat and waistcoat. There was blood upon his
shirt, and a bullet-hole in his breast. He had been shot unto death at
the first fire.




THE POET OF SIERRA FLAT.