At the sight of this abased and faded magnificence the sheriff's hand
was stayed; his eye wandered over the sleeping form before him. Yes, the
hair was dyed too; near the roots it was quite white and grizzled; the
pomatum was coming off the pointed moustache and imperial; the face in
the light was very haggard; the lines from the angles of the nostril and
mouth were like deep, half-healed gashes. The major was, without doubt,
prematurely worn and played out.

The sheriff's persistent eyes, however, seemed to effect what his ruder
hand could not. The sleeping man stirred, awoke to full consciousness,
and sat up.

"Are they here? I'm ready," he said calmly.

"No," said the sheriff deliberately; "I only woke ye to say that I've
been thinkin' over what ye asked me, and if we get to Sacramento all
right, why, I'll do it and give ye that day and night at your old
lodgings."

"Thank you."

The major reached out his hand; the sheriff hesitated, and then extended
his own. The hands of the two men clasped for the first, and it would
seem, the last time.

For the "cub of West Point" was, like most cubs, irritable when
thwarted. And having been balked of his prey, the deserter, and possibly
chaffed by his comrades for his profitless invasion of Wynyard's Bar, he
had persuaded his commanding officer to give him permission to effect a
recapture. Thus it came about that at dawn, filing along the ridge, on