heeled, even in daylight."

"The man must be insane," said the deputy sheriff. "The reward is
for his capture and conviction. If he's mad he won't be convicted."

Mr. Holker was so profoundly affected by that possible failure of
justice that he involuntarily stopped in the middle of the road, then
resumed his walk with abated zeal.

"Well, he looks it," assented Jaralson. "I'm bound to admit that a
more unshaven, unshorn, unkempt, and uneverything wretch I never saw
outside the ancient and honorable order of tramps. But I've gone in
for him, and can't make up my mind to let go. There's glory in it
for us, anyhow. Not another soul knows that he is this side of the
Mountains of the Moon."

"All right," Holker said; "we will go and view the ground," and he
added, in the words of a once favorite inscription for tombstones:
"'where you must shortly lie'--I mean, if old Branscom ever gets
tired of you and your impertinent intrusion. By the way, I heard the
other day that 'Branscom' was not his real name."

"What is?"

"I can't recall it. I had lost all interest in the wretch, and it
did not fix itself in my memory--something like Pardee. The woman
whose throat he had the bad taste to cut was a widow when he met her.
She had come to California to look up some relatives--there are
persons who will do that sometimes. But you know all that."